


Grey Maiden I: Philosopher's Stone

by MartinusMiraculorum



Series: Grey Maiden [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Bullying, Gen, Grieving, Harry Potter was Raised by Other(s), House Prejudice, Kids are terrible and so is Severus Snape, PTSD, Slytherin Harry Potter, Some Ron Bashing, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, revised from fanfiction.net
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-08-07 15:36:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 141,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16411202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MartinusMiraculorum/pseuds/MartinusMiraculorum
Summary: Taken from the lifeless arms of his mother on Halloween 1981, Harry grows up not with the Dursleys but his mother's best friend, a legendary and infamous Auror who has sworn her life to protect Lily's son. The Boy-Who-Lived's return to England will be far from uneventful.Revised from an AU originally posted on fanfiction.net.





	1. Halloween

 

A cloudless night, a chill wind blowing through an idyllic village.

Four hooded figures, dark silhouettes against the street lights.

From the shortest of the group, beady eyes shining with anxiety, a whispered instruction.

A betrayal.

A figure, once a man, now something else, leads the group. With his sharp features, he might have been considered handsome. No longer. Darkness had robbed his humanity long ago, a sacrifice willingly paid by untold and horrifying sacrifice.

He laughs softly, and gives an order to his companions. They depart, some more willingly than others.

He will do this himself.

 

Light through a lock, magical wards undone with a whisper. A sanctuary now violated.

His first obstacle is another man, young, with defiance in his eyes and courage in his heart. It will not save him. His wife flees at his command, just as the battle begins. It is over quickly. He grows tired of torturing the man, and finishes him with two words.

Savoring the moment, he steps over the body, not even deigning to look upon the face of James Potter. Just one more enemy vanquished. Another step in his plan for ultimate glory.

_His unlikely Servant will be rewarded._

Power ripples through him, and the walls of the cottage seem to shake from his very presence. The very air is potent with his magic. It is exhilarating.

Almost lazily, he climbs the stairs, and enters the child’s room.

Lily Evans Potter stands before him, terror, grief, defiance warring across her young features. Her wand moves with deliberate care even as she tries to hide it from him. A curse bats it out of her hand. She is a clever and powerful witch, for a Mudblood, and he would not do well to underestimate her. Held against her chest is a crying infant. A boy that would not survive this night.

He recalls Severus’ request. It is not, he decides,  _too much_  to ask.

“Move aside, girl, now!”

“No,” she shakes her head fiercely. “Not Harry.” Her hand is bleeding badly, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

He advances.

“Please, not Harry…Have mercy, have mercy,” she pleaded.

“Stand aside, silly girl! Stand aside!”

She refuses, and he tires of this game, extinguishing her life with a contemptuous slash of his wand. She crumples, the child landing atop her, wailing in terror.

Had he but taken a moment, he might have noticed the red sheen rippling out from the squealing infant’s body.

But Lord Voldemort is impatient, and he has waited too long for immortality.

The curse is cast, and something extraordinary happens.

A green bolt dissipates, then reforms to rebound in the opposite direction. With a hoarse cry, the Dark Lord is enveloped and his body burned away. The energy continues, sparking and crashing through the house, flames dancing across the wooden frame of the cottage.

And in his mother’s lifeless arms, a baby cries out, blood tricking down his forehead.

 

 

On the outskirts of the village, with a resounding ‘CRACK,’ a new player arrived on the scene.

She was young, above-average in height, dressed in robes of midnight blue, covered in a knee-length cloak of dark wool with an ornate silver and sapphire clasp. Athletic in her build, her appearance was, in a word, striking. Haunted grey-green eyes, burning with fear and rage and desperation, were set in a delicate face and framed by shoulder length honey-blonde hair.

They say one's eyes are the window to the soul. What looked out into the world from behind them was a keen intelligence cloaked in sorrow…but within that soul lurked a more malevolent presence: a searing fury that did not always know friend from foe; a raw anger that could burn any who came into contact with it.

But her most distinguishing facial features were a pair of relatively fresh scars. One was a long, wicked-looking blemish that ran from above her right eye down to her cheek, another a jagged scar on her neck that started beneath the left side of her chin and continued beneath her woolen cloak.

She moved confidently, powerfully, but as she took in the cottage wreathed in leaping flames that was once the home of the Potter family, she quickened her pace. Her disciplined stride broke, and she began to run, drawing her wand, a single thought racing through her mind.

 _Not again_.

Certain habits died hard. Even through her panic, she instinctively measured her surroundings: sizing up the terrain, locating any possible opposition, potential dangers - though she might well have missed a squad of Death Eaters in her growing panic.

 _Not Lily. Please,_ please _not Lily._

But she knew what the burning cottage portended. The defences had failed. They had been betrayed.

And Lily was  _dead_.

Her best friend, the woman she had grown to think as a sister, her last living family, was dead.

Along with her husband, James, and her son, Harry, Lily Evans Potter was dead.

She felt the urge to weep, to rage. It wasn't  _fair_. First her parents and young brother years ago, then Edmund, and now...

A faint sound pierced the air, the last sound that Daphne Artemis Dressler, born of the venerable but nearly extinct O’Connor line, would have expected to hear.

A faint baby's cry; a cry that carried with it the same anguish that suffused the heart of this witch. A cry of a baby whose parents had been cruelly taken from him.

_Harry._

Filled with a new sense of purpose, she cleared the remaining distance between her and the cottage. Pushing through the licking flames with her cloak and a whispered charm, she ignored the smouldering timbers, the choking fumes, the stench of death as she raced into the house through the open door. She paused for a moment as her gaze found the dead body of James Potter, blood no longer flowing from a major stomach wound, his eyes dull and glassy. But the crying was growing louder, as were the flames that had enveloped the small cottage, licking their way slowly across the walls. Without sparing another thought, she dashed up the creaking stairs and into little Harry’s room.

Her first impression on clearing the threshold of the baby’s room was of powerful magic that permeated the air, magic that stank of darkness and death, magic of a kind only associated with the Darkest of the Unforgivables; a curse that was feared by all who would not use it, and a curse that always killed. A curse that left no marks except for those on the hearts of its victims' loved ones.

_Avada Kedavra._

Yet there was something else in this small room besides the cracked and scorched walls, the voids in the charred ceiling where some tremendous explosion had ripped through plaster and wood to burst into the frigid October night. Something that to Daphne’s inherited sensitivities felt both altogether out of place and yet completely, utterly,  _right_.

Something that held the darkness at bay, an energy that gave off a nearly tangible warmth. 

Daphne let her eyes fall to the floor, and felt her stomach rebel.

Lily Evans Potter lay on the floor next to the cradle, the final victim of Lord Voldemort's reign of terror. Her dark red hair was spread out behind her like a halo, her expression disconcertingly dignified and serene in death, though her brilliant green eyes were dull and lifeless. Her limp arms were wrapped around the source of the noise that had summoned Daphne here, a small infant with his mother's green eyes and tufts of his father's jet-black hair. He was wailing now, the reason she could really believe the baby, whom she had somewhat reluctantly accepted as a nephew, even a Godson, still drew breath. Blood poured down his face from some sort of flesh wound on his forehead. She cleaned it with a wave of her wand, startled to see it resolve into a strange shape - a lightning bolt – cut into the baby’s forehead.

Before she could muse any further on this extraordinary scene, a burning ceiling rafter collapsed, sending up a cloud of sparks and setting the cradle ablaze.

She could not stay here any longer. She tucked the squalling child into her cloak to shield him from the smoke and flame. With one last look at her closest friend, she hurried down the stairs, wand held out to fend off fire and enemies alike. A quick bubble-head charm protected both her and her precious burden from the swirling fumes. This was no ordinary fire. Something terrible - something  _unnatural_  - had happened here. Her mind raced to put the clues together.

As reached the threshold of the cottage entrance, she heard the first floor begin to collapse behind her - instinctively she ducked as a gust of heat and fire blew over her head and jump-rolled onto the wet grass, careful to protect Harry, still cradled in her arm, from any impact. Pulling herself to her feet, Daphne looked back at the burning cottage, which was being steadily consumed by dark red flames. The inferno only seemed to be gaining in strength, as if Harry’s presence had been the only thing previously holding it back.

She wondered absently if there would be much of anything left of James and Lily to bury when it was all over.

Through the haze of shock and grief that seemed to deaden her thoughts and slow her movements, it occurred to Daphne that she would hardly be the only one coming to check on the Potters. Dumbledore, at least, would have received warning that an attack was underway.

She could stay. Perhaps she  _should_  stay, for Harry’s sake. Dumbledore was the Head of the Order, the Headmaster of Hogwarts, the closest thing to a leader that the fragmented wizarding world possessed since the sacking of the Ministry and the death of the Minister.

That didn’t mean she  _trusted_  him. It was Dumbledore who had set up the safe-house for her and Edmund. He promised her he would keep her safe, that they might have a respite, however brief, for a time after their hurried wedding.

He made so many promises. He kept so few. He played chess with the lives of the Order, used them as pawns to further his cause. And he had as many defeats as victories to show for it.

Could she trust him with her life? With  _Harry’s_?

Voldemort was gone. Somehow, she knew it for a certainty. She had encountered the Dark Lord before, briefly, felt the sting of his magic. What she had felt in that bedroom was all too familiar, but it was wild, untamed,  _broken_.

What made up her mind minutes later, as she watched the flames completely swallow the cottage, was a sudden realization of who might be entrusted with Harry if Dumbledore had his way. She had never met anyone with such unflinching trust in blood magic and the power of familial bonds. To him, sending Harry to Lily’s sister Petunia and her awful Muggle husband would be a logical choice. As the  _Fidelus_ Charm had failed, it seemed his Godfather was a traitor, and Voldemort’s followers might well seek retribution. And she was…well.

She was  _erratic_.

 _No_ , she decided. She would not trust the last part of Lily left in this world to such people. Dumbledore be damned. She was not a child anymore. She no longer made the mistake of thinking that Albus Dumbledore knew everything, or even knew right from wrong at all times. Such illusions had been burned away once and for all in the flames of this wretched war.

With a renewed sense of purpose, Daphne raised her wand and began to trace fiery letters carefully and deliberately, letting them hang in the darkness before the burning cottage. She owed Dumbledore an explanation, at least. For Lily’s sake. Her friend had always thought well of Albus, and he of her.  

With one last look back at the leaping flames, she vanished with a piercing CRACK.

The message remained.

 

 

Mere seconds later, an altogether different kind of noise thundered in the sky, and a cloaked figure descended atop a huge motorcycle. The engine revved loudly as he brought the flying vehicle in for a landing and jumped off.

At just a glance at the leaping flames, he broke down, falling to his knees with anguished sobs. He didn’t even need to see the bodies to know that his two best friends were dead. They had failed.

_Peter._

Pettigrew had betrayed them, he knew that now. And it was Sirius’s fault they were dead, for he had made the  _brilliant_  decision to switch at the last moment. He’d been there, where Peter was in hiding. The building was empty, but there was no sign of a struggle. He hadn’t been captured; he had gone willingly to his master.

He had delivered them right into Voldemort’s hands.

And Peter, good old  _Wormtail_ , would pay.

_Oh, yes, he would pay for this._

Another CRACK resounded through the air, and Sirius Orion Black spun around, wand drawn. But he lowered it at the sight of a familiar silhouette. This veritable giant of a man looked far from threatening at that moment; leaning on his pink umbrella and bawling like a baby as he gazed at the scene of destruction in front of him.

“Sirius?” the man asked through his tears. Sirius nodded, his gaze never leaving the burning house. He wanted to go in, to see if anyone was alive, or at least move the bodies. But he couldn’t move. He couldn’t get it through his head that he would never see James or Lily again.  _My gods, we thought it was Remus. I..I as good as_ killed _them…_

Through his choked sobs, Sirius felt Rubeus Hagrid walk over to him and place a hand the size of a rubbish bin lid on his shoulder, patting gently, but still with enough force to knock him forwards. “S’gonna be alright Sirius,” he mumbled, sounding rather unconvinced by his own words. Haltingly, he removed his hand. “Sirius? Have yeh looked fer ‘arry? ‘e’s probably…yeh know, but…”

Somehow it was only then he noticed the words hanging in the air, though they were only a shade or two darker than the leaping flames consuming the house.

_I have taken Lily’s son away. I will keep him safe. Do not look for me._

_D.A.D._

_Daphne_ , he thought, almost like a curse. She  _would_  do something this reckless. She wasn’t  _right_ , not anymore. Not since she lost her husband of barely three weeks.

But he realized there was little to be done. If Daphne wanted to hide, few would be able to track her down. In addition to her own resourcefulness, she had quite a few powerful connections, family and otherwise.

The  _Grey Maiden_  was not to be trifled with.

Sirius had never really liked her that much, though her fierce loyalty to Lily was unquestionable. Her open skepticism of Lily’s relationship with James had done little to engender affection in the other Marauders, even if she eventually came around. After Hogwarts, they had gone through Auror training and orientation together, and he found her nothing if not ruthlessly competent.

Then again, given what she had gone through, it was hardly a wonder the woman was downright joyless.

Hagrid’s voice brought him back. “Who’s D.A.D, Sirius? An’ where’s ‘Arry?”

Sirius sighed. “Do you remember Daphne Dressler? Maiden name O’Connor?”

Hagrid looked puzzled. Bless the man; he could hardly fathom someone on  _their_  side blatantly disobeying Albus Dumbledore. “Lily’s friend, weren’t she?”

“One of her best,” Sirius confirmed. He paused, “She was always…fond of Harry.”

They were silent for a long moment.

“How did this ‘appen?” Hagrid wondered aloud. “Dumbledore said…”

“I know what he  _said_ ,” Sirius barked, thoughts of his Godson and Daphne Dressler almost forgotten as rage at the true enabler of this atrocity boiled over.

A plan was formulating in Sirius’s mind. A plan of revenge.  _James and Lily might be dead, but good little Peter_   _will follow them to the grave soon enough…_

He couldn’t stay here; he couldn’t risk Pettigrew escaping and the trail going cold. “Hagrid, I’ve got…something I need to do.”

Dumbledore would stop him, would tell him to rise above the level of his enemies, to fight the urge for vengeance in kind. Sirius would have  _none_  of it. His family had not been wrong about  _everything;_ sometimes, blood for blood was the only way. “You can have my motorcycle, I won’t be needing it. I know Apparition doesn’t really agree with you”

Hagrid’s looked dumbfounded. “Sirius, what-“

Blood was pounding in his ears. “No time. Give Dumbledore my regards.”

Sirius Black vanished with a CRACK, neglecting in his haste to mention the only piece of evidence that might have proven his innocence.

 

 

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore was the next to Apparate to the site of the Potters' cottage in Godric’s Hollow. At his side was Hogwarts’ Transfiguration Professor, Deputy Headmistress, and, less officially, his second in command of the Order of the Phoenix. Dumbledore was a very tall man with long white hair and an even longer beard. He wore golden spectacles that slightly magnified his blue eyes, eyes which normally held an amused twinkle. They were devoid of any such lightness or mirth now. The wizard was clad in flowing purple robes, and the look on his face was one of regret and sorrow for the loss of a pair of wonderful friends.

Beside him, Minerva McGonagall was a rather severe looking woman with a lined face and greying black hair pulled back into a ponytail. She wore robes of a deep emerald green, and tears were streaking silently down her face as she struggled to keep her composure.

Standing before the smouldering ruin, now just a shell of the idyllic cottage it had once been, was a massive, but familiar, figure. His hands were over his face, and he shook violently with sobs.

“Hagrid?” Dumbledore asked, trying to keep the anxiety out of his voice. Something was wrong. He was  _certain_  about his interpretation of the Prophecy. Never in his wildest nightmares had he imagined it would come to pass like  _this,_  but Harry lived. He had to.

“Hagrid,” he said, as calmly as he could manage. “Where is Harry Potter?”

Hagrid met his gaze, his eyes red and puffy. “Professor, Sir.” He frowned. “‘Arry isn’t ‘ere.” His voice was downcast, as if he felt he had failed in the task Albus had assigned to him.

“What do you mean, Hagrid?” McGonagall asked, a look of panic flashing across her features. Dumbledore had shared his suspicions with her, if not the actual source of his certainty. “He lives, does he not?”

Hagrid nodded quickly, and Albus felt a weight lift from his shoulders. “Yessir. Problem is, somebody got ‘ere first. Before me an’ Sirius.”

“ _Sirius Black_?” McGonagall asked, shock evident in her voice. Albus felt the familiar fatigue of betrayal crawl over his thoughts. “Wasn’t  _he_  the Potter’s Secret Keeper?” she continued. “Surely he had to be dead! What did he say, Hagrid? How did this-”

Hagrid looked thunderous. “Black was…Black was their Secret Keeper? ‘e…it was  _him?_ ” His eyes darkened. “ _Bastard_ …Lyin’ traitorous  _bastard!_ ” The man’s rage and grief seemed to shake the very ground underfoot.

“Rubeus, please,” Dumbledore said, hearing the weariness in his own voice. “We didn’t know that Sirius had followed the path of his family. But we all know how little is certain in this war, how friend can so easily become foe.” He felt Minerva stiffen beside him. There had been many betrayals, but this might have cut the deepest...well, since Gellert, of course.

Dumbledore closed his eyes, reaching out his thoughts. Now he was sure. “I can tell you only that Lord Voldemort, for now, has gone.”

“He’s really dead then, Albus?” McGonagall asked, “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is dead at last? We’ve  _won_?” She sounded extremely reluctant to believe it.

“For now, Lord Voldemort is gone. However, I do not doubt that he remains in some form. But yes, for the present time, we have won this battle. Another war, I believe, remains to be fought.”

“What about the boy?” she demanded. Her face was pale. “Hagrid…Sirius Black didn’t…”

“It were Daphne Dressler,” he answered her quickly.” He gestured an enormous arm towards a spot in front of the smouldering cottage. “Over there…She left a note, written in t’air. Says she took ‘em, and that she don’t want anyone to look fer them.”

“ _Daphne_?” Minerva repeated with disbelief. “Why in Merlin’s name would she do this?” Both looked to Albus.

“I cannot truly say,” Dumbledore replied slowly, even as he tried to make sense of these revelations. He had his suspicions, and they were worrisome. “But it is obvious that she intends to keep him away from me, for whatever reason.”

Hagrid and Minerva began to speak, but he waved them off. “We should not stay any longer. We will…we will speak of this later.” There was, in reality, little he could do.

In the past few minutes, the inferno before them seemed to have burned itself out completely, something that in Dumbledore’s experience betrayed its supernatural origins. Though he would need to consult his instruments, he was beginning to understand what had happened here even if it would be difficult to know for certain without a chance to examine Harry personally. Lily was _...had been_  a truly brilliant Charms witch. He knew she had been studying advanced magics at his suggestion: protective magics,  _blood_ magics, preparing for the worst.  _Could_  she have done it? Woven an enchantment so strong with her maternal love that even Voldemort could not break it? The Prophecy might offer a clue.

 _…the power he knows not_ …

“What about,” Hagrid swallowed. “What ‘bout the…about James and Lily, Professor?”

Dumbledore looked at the gutted shell of the cottage. “There may be little left,” he said wearily.

“I won’t leave ‘em here,” Hagrid said determinedly, tears streaming down his face. “We owe ‘em that much.”

“Minerva?”

“I’ll assist Hagrid.” McGonagall’s voice was shaking, a very rare occurrence indeed. She had been close to both of the Potters, first as their Head of House, and then a mentor of sorts in the years after they left. James had been one of her best students, and their relationship only grew stronger as they fought alongside one another in what some of them would privately admit was a losing battle.

“I must,” Albus’s own voice broke. He had seen too much death in the last few years. To lose two souls whose lives had just barely begun…it was almost too much. “I must return to Hogwarts. The Order has to be informed of what happened here.”

“Do what you must, Albus,” Minerva said solemnly. “That’s all that’s left to us, now.”

 

 

Daphne Dressler and her infant cargo arrived at the gates of the ancestral home of her late husband’s family.

Edmund Dressler had been the only son of a very wealthy pureblood line, and the most kind and loving man that Daphne had ever known. 

She missed him desperately.

Daphne had no intention to stay the night; it was the first place anyone would come looking for her. She needed to get away from Dumbledore, and that meant getting out of the country. She’d already decided on what spells to use to make Harry and herself Unplottable. But she couldn’t just trust magic for this.

She had safe houses, escape routes, back-up plans. One in particular came to mind.

Harry was sleeping soundly at the moment, though she had no idea how long that might last.

He presented an altogether more unfathomable mystery. His fresh wound had already vanished, leaving a thin scar of a kind she had never seen before.

Between the magical residue of  _the_   _Avada Kedavra_ , a kind of ‘stench’ of dark magic so strong that it could not have only been caused by one death, and this peculiar scar, she had a feeling that it was a result of the Killing Curse.  _But then how was Harry still alive?_ Then there was the apparent demise of the Dark Lord himself, the strange aura of protection surrounding the baby, the fact that the fires consuming the cottage were not entirely natural, yet Harry was unhurt.

She didn’t have time to ponder all of that now. Gently rocking him back and forth in her arms, she approached the boundary of the estate, striding through the wards as they recognized her magical signature. Proceeding through the west courtyard, a tap and whispered password gave her entrance through the colonnaded gable entrance, and into the great hallway that opened up into the main residential wing. Her strides took her to the sitting room, where a roaring fire bled heat she barely felt. Beside an ancient bookshelf, atop a carved wooden table, was a picture that broke her heart all over again.

It was a copy of their wedding picture. A young woman she barely recognized, eyes as bright and full of life as they had been for years, wrapped her arm wrapped around a tall man with boyish features and a goatee, wearing handsome green robes and a grin that once made her go weak at the knees. A stately looking woman with graying brown hair pulled into a bun and a beaming elderly man with bright blue eyes and straw-coloured hair stood behind the happy couple, wearing looks of weary joy.

Of the four, she was the only one left alive. At least Clarice had passed from natural causes. No one knew for certain what had happened to Thomas, and Edmund…

Edmund had been murdered right before her eyes.

She was shaken out of her daze by the sound of scuffling feet, and sharply turned to meet the sight of a rather old, ragged-looking house-elf. The small creature’s feature’s lit up when he saw her standing beside the fire.

“Mistress Daphne, ma’am,” the house-elf bowed low, “It is so good to be seeing you again. Who is the small master?”

“This is Harry, Yonky, Harry Potter.” There was a slight lilt to her voice, what remained of her childhood accent from growing up in her family’s estate in County Meath.

“Mistress Lily’s son, ma’am?” the house-elf asked, his eyes lighting up in excitement.

“Yes, Yonky. Could you take care of him while I make preparations? I plan to leave England, tonight.”

The old elf straightened. “Yes, Mistress. Yonky knows how to take care of small masters. Yonky took care of Master Edmund when he was much smaller. Yonky was very sad indeed to hear of Master Edmund’s passing,” the house-elf said, a slight quaver in his voice the only visible sign of his grief and loss.

Daphne felt her eyes watering, and took a deep breath, trying to hold back the tears. She still couldn’t believe he was really gone. It seemed only yesterday that Edmund and she were discussing possibly starting a family, not just over six months. They had decided they would start one as soon as they could, damn the war. Four days later, Edmund was dead, cut down by Evan Rosier moments before Daphne had shredded him to bloody pieces in her rage. A stray Slicing Curse from Rudolphus Lestrange had nearly blinded her, and might have killed her but for a half-formed shield that blunted its impact. She would be lying if she said that she didn’t like awake and wonder what might have happened if she had not acted so quickly.

And if she did not wonder if maybe it would have been for the best.

Edmund was dead before they arrived at St Mungo’s. She had angrily refused any magical treatment for her own wounds. She would bear them as reminders. Reminders of her failure, and why she could never let her guard down again.

He had been the love of her life. Her soulmate, if she could bring herself to believe in such things.

And he had died, like all the rest.

He had left her behind.

Alone.

 _No,_  she corrected herself.  _I have Harry. I will raise him as my own. I owe Lily that much._

She stared at a line of magical portraits stretching back centuries, generations of Dressler men and women in various states of confusion and fear. She could not hear their whispered questions over the pounding of her own heart.

 _I have Harry. And he will want for nothing_.

She hurried up to the master bedroom to pack. She needed to be gone soon, before Dumbledore could catch up with her. Throwing open the wardrobes, she waved her wand and her necessary clothes and personal items flew into the trunk at the foot of the great four poster bed. It was easy: she already had them laid out in her mind. She knew they’d be able to access both the Potter’s and her accounts overseas, though she didn’t intend to rely on Lily and James’s generosity. Between her own fortune and Edmund’s, she had access to abundant funds for the both of them, though her cover might well require regular employment. It would be something to do. She certainly would not be returning from her Leave of Absence from the Aurors anytime soon.

She charmed the trunk to float and follow her, and ran back downstairs. Fossy, the Dressler’s other house elf, a female, had baby Harry in her arms, and was rocking him gently. The baby appeared to be sleeping soundly, protected for that moment. She would continue to protect him, with her life if necessary.

She would do…would have done anything for Lily. As she knew Lily would have done anything for her. During the dark days of her fourth year when the war had come for her, and in the creeping darkness and violence that followed. She had always been there, even when Daphne had not necessarily deserved it. She owed her friend so much.

And saving Harry from Lily’s horrible relatives, where Dumbledore, no doubt, would have sent him, was a way of paying back that debt. Truly, the only time she had met Petunia and her husband, she had instantly disliked them. Vernon was crude and distrustful of anything out of the ordinary. Petunia was a paranoid neat-freak who despised the success of her sister. No, Harry would  _not_  be sent to live with them. Dumbledore often thought he knew best. He was frequently wrong.

She was...she was not technically Harry's godmother, not like Sirius -  _traitor_ , she heard in her mind - was...had been his godfather. Her relationship with Lily and James had been strained at times, even before she had lost Edmund. But it seemed implicit to her that if something were to happen to Lily, it was her duty to look after her son. 

Speaking of Harry, Daphne had very little she could bring for him. There were no baby clothes in Dressler Manor. If worse came to worst, she could always transfigure Muggle children’s clothing into what she needed.  

Yes, she had everything she needed to make her escape. She would leave the house in the capable hands of the family house-elves and the manor’s powerful wards.

“Fossy, I’m taking Harry away now.” She paused. “I’m afraid we won’t be back for a long time.”

The house-elf looked crestfallen. Apparently, she had fallen in love with the small black-haired baby, but she recovered her composure. “Very well, Mistress Daphne. Fossy and Yonky will take care of the house while Mistress Daphne and Master Harry are gone.”

“Thank you, Fossy.” She paused. She never really liked dealing with house-elves – her parents had not kept them. They were undoubtedly eager to please and seemed content with their lot in life, but she had actually considered exploring options to emancipate the Dressler elves after Thomas’s disappearance. Neither Daphne nor her husband had any desire to live in such empty opulence.

With a final nod to the house-elf, Daphne took the baby out of Fossy's arms and pulled him gently to her own chest, breathing deeply to keep her composure. She picked her old broom from atop the trunk, a Cleansweep 3, and tapped it once, thinking clearly of the small house the Dresslers held in the wilds of Alberta, and muttering, “ _Portus.”_  The broom glowed blue for a moment, then faded. She didn’t care about the illegal Portkey; the Ministry wouldn’t find her in Canada either. Grasping her trunk and Harry securely, she spoke the activation words softly ( _‘new beginnings’)_ then placed her hand onto the broom. Harry let out a cry as she felt a tug behind her navel, and the world disappeared in blur of colours.

 

 

Sirius Black prowled through the streets of Muggle London, hunting his prey. He ducked down one alleyway, his keen sense of smell zeroing in on the Rat, as he had dubbed him. He emerged from the alleyway and moved into a large crowd of Muggles who were shopping.

Then Sirius spotted him.

He was furtively moving through the crowds of Muggles, his wand sticking blatantly out of his pocket as he ineffectively scanned for pursuers. Every so often he would sniff the air. Sirius’s eyes narrowed, and he stalked forward, elbowing confused Muggle aside.

“ _Wormtail.”_

Pettigrew spun around, almost losing his balance, and his watery eyes swept over his surroundings, before he made for a nearby alley. Growling, Sirius raced after him. When he had a clear shot, he snapped off his first spell, an Anti-Disapparition Charm that connected with Pettigrew’s arm. He wouldn’t be going anywhere that way, at least.  _He’ll be looking to transform now_ , Sirius thought, a curse on his lips.

Pettigrew stopped dead, face pale. Then he gave a strange smile, and drew his own wand. Sirius saw none of this, his rage boiling over, conscious thought overcome by a torrent of grief and hatred.

“You  _bastard._  You lying, snivelling, traitorous  _bastard! Look at me, damn it! LOOK AT ME!_ ” Sirius roared, his teetering self-control crumbling to dust, blood pounding in his ears. He was going to kill Peter,  _oh yes he was. Just a few more steps._

Wormtail cowered, and then bolted again like the rat he was, running into the middle of a crowded street, though he was quickly bumped and jostled by the crowd. Sirius pursued, damning the Statute of Secrecy. Muggles could be Obliviated; James and Lily could not be brought back to life.

He raised his wand, ready to incant a curse, and then stopped as his eyes registered something rather strange.

Pettigrew was fumbling with something, but it wasn’t his wand. He caught a flash of silver and realized it was a knife. Sirius faltered as he watched the man slice cleanly through his own finger above the last knuckle, the tip falling to the ground, blood spurting out to cover his robes. The knife vanished back into a sodden pocket, and then Peter had his wand again. When he finally met Sirius’s gaze, his words were very strange indeed.

“Lily and James, Sirius! How could you!” he yelled. Tears rolled down his cheeks, false ones, surely.  _What was the little traitor playing at now?_

He didn’t particularly care. He began the incantation for the Blinding Hex, remembering just how much little old Wormtail had liked that particular lesson, when he saw that Peter’s wand wasn’t pointed at him. It was pointed backwards, directly behind him.

Into a crowd of bewildered Muggles.

_No!_

“ _Expelli-“_

“ _CONFRIGO!”_ Pettigrew bellowed. The powerful hex tore into the street, pulverizing two metres of tarmac and rupturing a water main. A geyser of water and rubble was blasted into the sky. The shockwave sent Muggles flying through the air and knocked Sirius flat as debris rained down around him. At one point, Sirius might have been impressed with the power Peter put behind that spell.

Sirius got to his feet unsteadily, his ears ringing, surveying the carnage around him. Muggles lay bleeding all around the crater, and he could see at least ten who didn’t look like they would get up again. There was a cacophony of screams and moans and a cry of " _EYE ARE AY!"_ for some reason. There was no sign of Peter, but Sirius could not imagine the man had killed himself in some kind of suicidal last stand.  _The little rat is still on the loose._

Before he could take another step, a series of CRACKs split the air, red-robed Aurors and members of the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad appeared in amidst the chaos, followed shortly by a contingent of healers. The AMRS immediately threw up barriers to prevent the hysterical Muggles from fleeing the scene.

Sirius stood in the middle of the rapidly-closing circle. The first thing he saw the was the grim faces of several of his fellow Aurors, including the ruthless Rufus Scrimgeour, whose cold grey eyes looked at Sirius with nothing but contempt. Cornelius Fudge, one of the leading candidates in the upcoming election, was standing with them, along with Barty Crouch, his rival and a high-ranking official in the office of Magical Law Enforcement. All had their wands pointed firmly in his direction.

The other thing he registered was that his own wand was hanging limply at his side.

He suddenly realized what this must look like, especially since Dumbledore believed that he was the Secret Keeper of the Potters. Even if they were not aware of that, it now appeared to everyone that he had just murdered Peter Pettigrew and maybe a dozen Muggles. He was trapped.  _Just like Wormtail wanted, the bastard_.

Scrimgeour stepped forward, wand still pointed at Sirius’s heart. “Put the wand down, Black, it’s over.”

The wand tumbled from his unresisting fingers to clatter on the street. Sirius dumbly stared around at the angry faces of his colleagues and friends. They all believed that  _he_ was a traitor. They believed that he, like his foolish brother, had joined Lord Voldemort. And now Voldemort was dead. And Sirius began to laugh maniacally at the absurdity of it all. All the while, tears of grief and despair streamed down his face. But he couldn’t stop laughing. If it hadn’t been him, it would have been hilarious. Two days ago, Remus was the informant. Peter was innocent. James, Lily, and Harry were alive and in hiding. Voldemort still held a curtain of shadow over Europe.

How things had changed.

He didn’t notice Mad-Eye’s Stunner until it was far too late.


	2. Raising Harry Potter

 

A nearly eleven-year old boy soared through the sky, laughing in exhilaration.

Safely inside their cottage, Daphne watched with a mixture of bemusement and anxiety. It was inevitable that Harry would inherit some things from his father, though she had secretly hoped his affinity for Quidditch would not be one of them. While Daphne was entirely competent on a broom, she was not particularly comfortable.

Still, she reminded herself that this was for the best. She had denied Harry a ‘normal’ childhood for too many years, fleeing from refuge to refuge, staying a step ahead of Dumbledore, the Ministry, and the wizarding press.

Their latest, and almost certainly last, stop was the small magical community of Claw’s Clan, a few miles inland from the rocky coast of Newfoundland. The small settlement was home to a handful of witches and wizards, located well away from any major hub of the wizarding world. With some precautions, it was the perfect place to lose herself and her adopted son for a time.

It had the added benefit, she was reminded as Harry’s friend Connor Toland flashed into view, hot in pursuit, of giving Harry a chance to spend time with children his own age. Connor was lean and lanky, looking out at the world through a fringe of brown hair. He was a year older than Harry, newly returned from his first year at the Ottawa Magical Academy. And he sometimes seemed to Daphne to be more bird than human.

The paddock that Harry and Connor used for playing tag was warded and concealed to the best of her ability. Flying was dangerous, particularly the way Harry had a tendency to do it. And there was always the risk of discovery. A part of her resented Harry’s new friends for turning flying at high speeds from an occasional hobby into a passion. It put him in danger: of injury, of discovery, of worse.

She fought her fear and anger down, taking a deep breath to calm herself. _No_. _I’ve already bollixed my promise to give Harry a stable childhood. Keeping him safe and keeping him imprisoned in the house is_ not _the same thing._

She fretted about that often. She wasn’t a very good mother, when it came down to it. But Harry was no ordinary eleven-year old. 

Outside the house, he wasn’t even known as Harry Potter. With sandy-blonde hair and blue eyes, ‘James’ passed for her own son and shared her assumed surname: Callaghan. It was only the latest false identity she had concocted – her Auror infiltration training had taught her the value of frequently shedding identities. Daphne herself was known in this community as Alison, a war widow, single parent, and magical researcher who mostly kept to herself and received most of her shopping by owl. The same charms and potions that robbed Harry of his uncanny resemblance to James Potter (and concealed his unique scar) kept her face unblemished and her hair several shades lighter than its natural honey-blonde colour. Another necessary precaution.

Harry was not entirely happy about having to keep his identity and appearance a secret, but he did understand why it was important. If explaining why it was so vital meant telling him more about his parents’ demise and his own miraculous exploits than she would have liked, it was ultimately worth it.

She had lost her family. She had lost Edmund. She had lost Lily and James.

She would _not_ lose Harry. If that meant she had to indulge her paranoia, so be it.

Another voice, this one of a younger girl, was audible through the open window overlooking the paddock. That was Patricia Roberts, Connor’s best friend and a welcome influence on Harry as far as Daphne was concerned. She sat firmly on the ground, a herbology magazine open across her lap, irritably telling off Connor and Harry for their increasingly hazardous aerial acrobatics.

Harry was a voracious reader when he found the time for it, a habit Daphne, once of Ravenclaw House, had enthusiastically encouraged. His tastes ranged from magical history to Muggle fantasy novels to basic books of charms and hexes. During their years of travel from one temporary home to another, spanning a series of rented properties across Canada, the Midwestern United States, and even a year in France, Harry had been able to make few friends, and keep even fewer. But books were always there for him, and Daphne was happy to get him whatever reading material he wanted.

For all his resemblance to James, Lily shined through the most.

 _Well_ , she thought bemusedly, _present circumstances excluded_.

And yet to her frustration, Harry had grown up with the weight of expectations on his shoulders. She wondered often if she should have been so forthcoming in explaining the events that led to James and Lily’s deaths, if she should have stopped short of telling Harry what she had puzzled out about his scar and the circumstances she had encountered on Halloween 1981. Harry reported dreams of indistinct voices and green light, but her brief foray into his memories three years ago had yielded little in the way of additional details – he had simply been too young to recall the events properly.

It had been a harrowing experience all the same. Daphne had suffered many tragedies, and primarily survived them by leaving them to lie in the past. After delving into Harry’s mind, once in a while she would be haunted by indistinct thoughts and memories that were not her own. It was…unnerving.

She would love and cherish him unconditionally, of course, and she did her best to try to reassure Harry to that effect. Yet even though he would nod thoughtfully and wrap his arms around her shoulders each time she said it, it never seemed to really sink in.

There were no expectations so heavy as those you laid upon yourself. Apparently this was as true at ten as it was at thirty-one.

Harry was nothing if not perceptive. And her loss was too raw for her to hide it completely. He knew what she had sacrificed to raise him on her own, even at the tender age of eleven.

None of it was fair, for either of them.

She missed Edmund _so much_. Sometimes she found herself speaking to him in her mind. She wasn’t sure if she should be concerned that at times he seemed to answer back, even if logically she knew it was just her thoughts in his voice. It was a meagre comfort, but she would take it.

Truth be told, she missed England; missed the handful of friends and colleagues she had that had survived the war; missed the opulent but comfortable surroundings of Dressler Manor in the Devon countryside; missed the more temperate climate, even. She made it a point to stay informed, taking out an international subscription to the Daily Prophet under another alias.

And most of all, she missed the fallen.

Ten years ago, the first of November had been declared “Harry Potter Day.” Dumbledore, as politically astute as any wizard, had publicly declared that the Boy-Who-Lived had been sent “into hiding,” for his protection from vengeful followers of the Dark Lord. The words were accurate enough; the only problem was that Dumbledore didn’t actually know where Harry was.

She intended to keep it that way, at least until she sent Harry to Hogwarts, a decision she had made years ago and had to talk herself out of changing on an almost daily basis. It _was_ the finest magical education available, it was Harry’s birthright, it was the place where she had met the people who got her through the brutal deaths of her parents and brother, the people she had come to love before they were snatched away from her. And she knew that, as much as she hated it, eventually she needed to let go of her boy. Smothering him would only make things more difficult.

In preparation for that day, she had taken him aside weeks ago to explain exactly what the name ‘Harry Potter’ meant in the world they would soon rejoin. Harry had listened intently, though she could tell that it distressed him. He knew that he was famous effectively because his mother had died for him. Daphne tried to make him see it differently, but Harry resisted. He was every bit as stubborn as his parents, she thought wistfully.

As if summoned by her musings, a very weary tawny brown owl soared through the open kitchen window. It deposited a letter into her hands, then flew off again before she could even draw her wand. She spotted on the thick envelope the Hogwarts Seal of a Lion, a Serpent, a Badger, and a Raven. Her heart began to beat faster. She turned over the letter

 

_Mr. Harry J. Potter_

_The Upstairs Bedroom_

_16 Addleston Road_

_Claw’s Clan_

 

She sighed wearily. It was inevitable that Albus would, eventually, beat her at her own game of concealment and detection. The spells that enrolled each year of magical children in Wizarding Britain were powerful and ancient, and even her wards could not keep them at bay forever. 

With another glance at the boys twisting through the sky outside, she pocketed the letter.

 

 

  

Harry Potter bid farewell to his two friends as they headed home for dinner. As they ran out of sight, waving enthusiastically, he sighed and turned to go back into the small, two-story cottage that had been his home for the better part of two years now. 

Harry walked up to the back entrance and opened the door, closing it quietly behind him. He kicked off his shoes and headed for the kitchen, where he could smell his aunt’s cooking. Daph was not a brilliant cook, but she was certainly not the worst he’d encountered.

Coming around the corner, he saw Daphne look up at him, a pleased if slightly strained look on her face. “Harry, it came,” she said simply, before returning the meal she was making, a kind of beef stew.

“What came?” Harry asked.

“Your Hogwarts letter. It’s on the table.”

Harry grinned widely. He’d been waiting for _years_ for this moment, to be accepted to the same school that his mum, dad, and ‘aunt’ had attended. His guardian hadn’t insisted he go there, in fact, she encouraged him to do the research and determine if it sounded like the best place for him. But really, it had never been a contest. His parents, biological and adopted, had all gone there. How could he possibly not follow them?

Harry walked over to the table and found an envelope with the Hogwarts Seal on it, and also his address. He frowned. “Daph, how did they know where we live?”

Daphne laughed, a melodious sound spoiled by a hint of bitterness. “Did you really think we could hide from Albus Dumbledore forever, Harry? It was only a matter of time. Fortunately, he decided not to interfere before now.”

She pointed her wand at the ladle in the stew, and it magically filled two bowls, which promptly floated over to the counter where a pair of stools sat, waiting to be used. “I’m surprised it took him that long, really. What are you waiting for, Harry, open it!” Her smile was genuine, but slightly sad.

Harry grinned and pulled open the envelope, careful not to tear the parchment. He pulled out a thick letter and some sort of list of books. He flipped open the letter.

_HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY_

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

_HEADMASTER: Albus Dumbledore_

_(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chief Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, Intl. Confederation of Wizards)_

 

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_I must say, it’s been quite a challenge for Professor Dumbledore to locate you. Your guardian concealed you well. I am very pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

_Term begins September 1 st. We await your owl no later than July 31st._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall_

Harry put the letter down, then looked up to see Daphne approaching with their dinner and two glasses of water. “Daph, it says they wanted our owl over two weeks ago.”

His adopted mother seemed unconcerned. “It shouldn’t be a problem. They’ll be happy to have you with them.”

There was something in her voice that suggested an anxiety far greater than she was letting on.

“So should I send Yancy?” he asked. Yancy was Daphne’s own familiar, an elderly eagle owl that had once belonged to her husband’s family but seemed none the worse for the wear despite his many years of service.

Daphne had a determined look on her face. “No, we’ll do better than that. We’re going back to England in the morning Harry. We’ll take a Portkey to Dressler Manor and Apparate to Hogwarts.”

“Hogwarts?” Harry asked. “Tomorrow?”

Daphne shrugged. “Like you said, they’ve been expecting to hear from us for some time. No point delaying any further, and I’m off work tomorrow.”

Harry considered that. He’d grown up all over the western world – Canada, America, Ireland, even France. They had avoided ever settling in England.  “Alright. I’d like to see the castle. I’m just not looking forward to the Apparition.” He paused. “So why _are_ we going in person?” Harry asked as he blew on a spoonful of his scalding hot stew.

“Because I’ve got a few things to discuss with Albus, and it would be nice to let them see you. The real you, I think. No Glamour charm.”

 _That_ was certainly something he was happy to hear. “I suppose everyone will know about it pretty soon, then.”

“Most likely, dear.” She paused. “Just be prepared for a lot of people not quite as…mature as you are,” she said, gazing out the window, “not just children, either.”

‘Mature’ was a word that Daphne used frequently to describe him, though he didn’t really know if it was warranted. But Harry knew how much his adopted mother regretted never giving him a proper and stable childhood. Maybe his being ‘mature’ was the silver lining. 

“I know,” he said quietly. His stomach rumbled, and he glanced down at the steaming bowl. “Any chance you could do something about this stew?”

Daphne lightly smacked her forehead. “Sorry Harry. Here, I’ll use a Cooling Charm.”

She poked her wand and the steam abated. Harry took a healthy spoonful and found it warm but no longer scalding. He ate slowly, smiling as he felt a thrill of mixed excitement and anxiety race through his body as his eyes traced over the parchment on the table beside him. _Hogwarts!_ After so many years, he was going to Hogwarts! 

Behind him, Daphne looked on, emotions warring across her features.

 

 

 

 

After dinner, Daphne gave him a quick peck on the forehead, ruffled his hair, and sent him off to bed. She knew he would be reading for several hours. Cleaning the kitchen quickly, she sat down with a mug of tea and began to ponder how both she and Harry would adapt to his new life at Hogwarts. 

Harry had not had many friends, she thought guiltily. Their constant movement and need to change identities meant that every place they settled he had always had to start over, and until he had come home telling her excitedly about Connor and Tricia she had begun to worry that he had just about given up. 

And now, of course, she would have to pull the rug out from under them again. They didn’t even know Harry’s name, for Merlin’s sake, or his true appearance. Once in a while all the magic wore off, leaving perpetually messy black hair, a slim frame, and inquisitive green eyes that could mesmerize if you looked too closely. The resemblance to Lily and James was nothing short of uncanny.

And while the Glamour Charms and various potions she used to alter his appearance were primarily for his own safety and their continued anonymity, a part of her was selfishly thankful she didn’t have to see Lily’s eyes staring back at her every single day.

He would make friends, surely! It might not come easily at first, but he would finally have some stability in his life, and while a bit quiet and withdrawn, her adopted son was hardly a loner. If he was anything like either of his parents, his friends would comprise a small, tight-knit group of people who met each other at eleven and would die for each other by fifteen. Though Daphne had some trouble envisioning Harry leading the next generation of Marauders, stranger things had surely happened.

Harry’s reading habits had inevitably led to requests, first subtle and then less so, to practice actual magic. It was forbidden, of course, but she was far from the Ministry and her wards were more than capable of concealing minor spells and enchantments. Still, she was wary of sending Harry to Hogwarts too far advanced over his peers. That said, after his tenth birthday, his training had begun in earnest. Daphne might not want Harry to be capable of skipping his first year, but she would not send her ward off unprepared. She was under no illusions as to how dangerous an environment Hogwarts could be.

To start with there were everyday incantations such as the Lighting, Locking and Unlocking Charms. She had been a bit more remiss to teach him the Levitation Charm, remembering that particular lesson from her Head of House with fondness, but it was a very versatile bit of magic, and best to get started on it early.

Those were the simple ones, and the ones that did not weigh heavily on her conscience. 

In a rather different category were spells she herself had not learned until she was thirteen or fourteen, and that was in a time of slowly escalating hostilities that would spill into outright war within two years. The Stunning Spell, Full-Body Bind, Disarming Spell. All very safe if used properly and responsibly. And also spells that she urged Harry not to use unless absolutely necessary. A handful of the more tutored purebloods might come to school knowing them, but they would surely raise some rather large red flags among the staff.

Most challenging of all was the Shielding Charm – Harry hadn’t mastered it, but then again, neither had most fifth years. All of his spells were inconsistent, but that might be explained by the fact that he had to use Daphne’s wand. Once he got his own, she was confident he would improve.

At this point, she had begun to feel more secure about leaving him on his own at Hogwarts. Well, she supposed, not really on his own – he would have a House and fellow students, plus the ever-watchful eye of Albus Dumbledore – but, well…away from her. And that was the part that seemed to matter the most, when it came down to it. 

As for herself, she had been exploring several options. She would write to Harry regularly, of course. She would visit for Easter, but she had reluctantly accepted an offer to stay the Christmas holidays in Australia with Edmund’s favourite cousin, Justin. She liked the man a great deal, and could not turn him down after so many years. He was all she had left of her husband, and his contacts had been invaluable in locating many of her temporary residences. Harry had been disappointed, but understanding. She reassured him by telling him about her happy memories of Christmas at Hogwarts, getting to know other students and having the run of the castle. And if all else failed, she could always change her plans. 

She was looking into the possibility of surprising him for a few days during the holidays. The problem was that the legal complications of creating not one but _two_ intercontinental portkeys were…significant. But if she was able to grease the right palms, she could probably manage it. In the meantime, she would remain here, in her post as a researcher. Despite her initial misgivings, she had grown fond of the little community here, and even considered trying to be a bit more social once she no longer had to hide who she was. Eventually, she might move back to Dressler Manor, even if that thought wasn’t as comforting as she liked.

But all that lay in the future; best focus on the present for now.

 

 

 

Harry scratched at the back of his neck and tried to adjust his collar. Daphne had dressed him in some of his nicer robes for their long awaited journey to Hogwarts, but he was eleven, and would much rather be wearing more comfortable clothing. His guardian’s attire was austere and practical, her scarred features revealed for the first time in years. Harry’s black hair occasionally fell into his eyes, startling him on occasion. It had been so long since he had gone more than a few hours without a Glamour Charm or potion, he had almost forgot what his hair looked like undisguised.

He had spent what felt like hours staring at his own reflection in the mirror, peering at the peculiar scar, shaped like a bolt of lightning, that was the cause of so many of the complications in his life.

He resented it more than a little.

Daphne finished tidying up and moved towards the kitchen table. She wore dark blue robes, a worn woollen cloak, and no visible jewellery save her rune-inscribed silver wedding band. Her wand sat in its leather holster at her belt. It was the first time Harry had seen that accessory for years, and made him realize just how big a step this really was.

“Daphne?” 

His guardian looked at him. He did not miss the dark shadows under her eyes. She had not been sleeping again. Nightmares, probably. He wondered if any of them were about him.

“Right. Yes, we should be going.” She tapped the battered pocket watch lying on the table with her wand, muttering under her breath. It glowed a faint blue for a moment.

She reached over and gently drew Harry’s hand to the watch, grasping on with her own at the same time. And with a feeling like his stomach dropping out of his body before being flung into the air, they were gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story starts off a bit slowly, mostly to build character relationships going forward. While Daphne will obviously remain a central character in this story, Harry and his friends are ultimately the primary protagonists.


	3. Homecoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter before we get to Hogwarts. The back third or so is pretty directly taken from the books, with a handful of adjustments. From here, things begin to diverge a bit more from canon, even if I've kept the basic structure of Harry's first year.

 

They stopped briefly at Dressler Manor, where they were greeted by a pair of excited house-elves, both of whom expressed their astonishment that the boy standing beside their late master’s widow was once the wailing infant Daphne had brought here almost a decade ago. But Harry was barely able to take in the luxurious furnishings of the sprawling house, as well as its attendant estate before they were away. Truly, he’d never seen anything like it.

But when he asked Daphne if she had grown up in a place like this, a look came over her face he knew all too well. Her ‘I don’t want to talk about that’ look. The one that indicated Harry had strayed onto something terrible about her past that she was not yet prepared to share with him.

Feeling guilty, he let the subject drop.

e

They cleared the Anti-Apparition wards a few hundred metres from the mansion and Daphne stuck her hand out expectantly. Harry took it, and in an instant the world became a blur before they reappeared on the outskirts of a small village.

Harry looked at his guardian in confusion, and she smiled, pointing up the hill, where the turrets and towers of a great castle stood on a high rocky outcrop. “This is Hogsmeade, Harry,” she said, drawing his attention back to their surroundings. “The wards of Hogwarts make it easier to Apparate here and make the rest of the journey on foot. You’ll be arriving at the station here on the 1st of September, so best get used to it!”

The forced cheer in her voice was slightly unnerving. He got the sense she really didn’t want to be here. She set off and Harry hurried after her as they reached the outlying houses of the town.

The village was not particularly impressive, though it was certainly bigger than many he had lived in over the years. Three or four cross-streets, and a network of small alleys, lined with eccentric wooden buildings containing shops and homes, spread out over about a kilometre. In the distance he could see what appeared to be a train yard, but Daphne had taken him by the hand and begun moving towards the centre of the village. 

As they walked, Daphne gave him a brief walking tour. Zonko’s Joke Shop, Honeydukes and their fine sweets, and, she added with amusement, Madam Puddifoot’s Teashop. Harry was not really clear exactly why this was so funny, but Daphne said he would understand when he was older.

They approached an inn, identified by the hanging wooden sign that bore the words ‘The Three Broomsticks’ with a crude painting of three brooms in formation. Daphne asked if he was hungry, but he shook his head. His nerves were building and quite spoiling his appetite.

They began to tread up a long, winding road, beaten down by centuries of foot traffic. As they finally crested the last hill, Hogwarts was laid out before them.

Harry let his gaze travel over the mighty castle, with its myriad of high towers reaching into the cloudy sky. His first thought was that it looked impossible, with too many structures crammed into too small a space. _It must be magic holding it all together_.

The grounds were immaculate, the grass cut short and even, hedges trimmed into the shape of magical beasts, only some of which Harry recognized from his books. He found his heart racing as they passed through a deserted courtyard, heading for a pair of great oak doors that towered over him.

Daphne took the lead, striding towards them with a purpose. When her hand pushed against them, one opened seemingly effortlessly, and Daphne beckoned for Harry to follow her. _More magic_.

Harry found himself beside Daphne in a grand entrance hall. A great staircase of polished marble led up to another tall arched portal blocked by two ancient doors. To the left, a narrow staircase flanked by flickering lanterns led down into a lower level of the castle. And to the right…

Another set of great carved doors opened of their own accord, though Harry glimpsed a lion and a serpent carved in relief before they passed out of view. Three figures now stood before them, deep in conversation before the sound of the new arrivals drew their attention.

One of them, the only woman, let out a gasp. She was tall, albeit not as tall as her elder companion. Severe, her grey hair tightly curled into a bun, wearing robes of rich emerald, a black witch’s hat atop her head. She peered at them through her spectacles, and her eyes widened. “It can’t be,” she began, with a hint of a Scottish brogue. “Daphne?”

Harry had never seen his guardian look guilty before - and she hid it quickly enough - but it unnerved him even as understanding dawned. Daphne had not been all that forthcoming to him on _how_ they had ended up on their own far from Britain, but it was fairly clear she had made the decision by and for herself.

He saw his guardian straighten, a look of confident conviction sliding over her features, her eyes going steely. “Minerva,” she said simply. She looked at the other two, the tall wizard with a long white beard and the sallow-skinned man dressed all in black, who was staring directly at Harry with a look of dawning comprehension – and hatred. “Albus.” She paused. “Severus.”

Albus – surely Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, cleared his throat. “Daphne. I must say this is unexpected.”

“That is an understatement,” the woman, apparently Minerva, breathed.

“Ten years,” the younger man said, his eyes hardening as he raked them over Harry’s frame in a way that made him distinctly uncomfortable. “And now you return. And not alone…” He switched his gaze to Daphne. “I suppose we ought to be grateful that you have kept the…child safe all these years.” His tone was witheringly sarcastic, and Harry could feel the tension in the air.

“Severus,” Dumbledore – Albus Dumbledore, hero of the First Wizarding War with Gellert Grindelwald - warned. He turned to look at Harry, who squirmed uncomfortably. Something about the ostensibly friendly twinkle in his blue eyes suggested he was staring into Harry’s soul.

As if sensing his distress, Daphne stepped in front of him. “I think we had best discuss matters elsewhere. In private.”

Minerva looked like she might object, but Dumbledore raised a hand. “I think that would be best, yes. I shall arrange for someone to look after young Harry in the meantime. One of the house-elves, perhaps? Would you like a tour of the castle, Mr. Potter?”

There was something Harry was _very_ keen to see. “Could I see the Library, sir? I’ve heard quite a lot about it.”

 _That_ got a reaction from all three of them. They ranged from befuddlement on the face of Minerva to outright disbelief on the part of Severus. Dumbledore merely looked even more thoughtful. “An unexpected request,” he admitted. “But certainly one I can fulfill.” He clapped his hands. “Raffy, if you would.”  

A house-elf appeared before them, a rather old one, by the looks of things, with a wrinkled face and worn-looking ears, but a kind smile and gentle eyes. “Master Dumbledore, sir?”

“This is Harry Potter. He will be beginning his schooling in about a month, but we need to discuss matters with his…guardian. He would like to visit the Library.”

The house-elf bowed gracefully. “As you wish, Master Dumbledore, sir. Young Master Potter, if you would follow me?”

Harry looked to Daphne, who nodded. He found himself led away down a series of winding corridors, lined with torches in metal brackets and magical paintings, their inhabitants all eager to get a look at the newcomer, and not afraid to be vocal about it. 

They reached another great set of doors, which Raffy opened with a snap of his fingers. Inside was something beyond Harry’s wildest dreams. His eyes took in what seemed like miles of towering bookshelves in irregular rows filling up the whole of a cavernous room. And at the centre of it all, there was an enormous desk stacked high with dusty books, behind which a woman with a face like a hawk gazed suspiciously at the newcomers.

She cleared her throat. “Elf, who is this?” Her voice was dry, like old parchment.

“The young master is Harry Potter, Mistress Pince,” the elf answered elegantly. “He would like to see the Library." 

The librarian tutted. “I’m afraid I cannot allow a child to wander through here without supervision. Certainly not one that is not even a first year.” 

Harry was about to object when another voice interrupted. “That’s quite alright, Madam Pince,” it said. A woman emerged from around the edge of one of the bookcases. She spoke softly and deliberately, never breaking eye contact with the Librarian. “I will look after him.”

Madam Pince seemed unimpressed, but relented. Harry took another look at his new ally.

She was dressed in dark robes, possibly black, though it was hard to tell in this light. She was dark-haired and slender, her face rather plain and unassuming, but her dark eyes hinted at great intelligence. And around her neck was a silver and green scarf, just above a badge with similar colors. _Slytherin_ , he thought.

“Harry Potter, is it? My word. I’m Mistre…sorry, Professor Sinistra. I’m nearly as new to this place as you are, believe it or not.” She smiled uncomfortably. “I teach Astronomy. Or I will. My first students will be arriving in a month, and you will be among them.” 

Harry stuck out a hand, and she took it. “Hello, Professor. It’s nice to meet you.” 

She smiled at his formality. “So, Mr Potter. What brings you here so far in advance of your peers? Surely you aren’t alone?”

Harry considered his answer, before deciding on the truth. He was relieved that this Professor Sinistra was treating him as just another curious eleven-year old, not the Saviour of Wizardkind. “My guardian brought me here. She’s…in discussions with the Headmaster and” he paused. “Minerva? Severus?”

Professor Sinistra didn’t visibly react, but she clearly found something amusing. “Oh dear. Don’t go about calling them that. That,” she explained, “would be Professor Minerva McGonagall, Head of Gryffindor House, and Professor Severus Snape, Head of Slytherin.”

“You’re a Slytherin, aren’t you?” Harry said, gesturing at her scarf.

“Yes,” she said. “Or rather I was while I was at school. However, since I’ve joined the staff, I’ve rediscovered a bit of House pride, shall we say.”

She looked at Harry curiously. “So, what did you want to look at first? I assure you, it’s no bother. This is the most interesting thing that’s happened to me all week.” 

 

  

Snape started in on her the instant Harry was probably out of earshot. “You have some _nerve_ …”

Albus would have nothing of it, and cut off both the former Death Eater and her own retort. “Enough, you two. We will discuss this in my office.”

Daphne fumed, but remained silent as they made their way through the familiar corridors, though they all seemed a bit darker now. Past a set of tapestries that looked a bit more faded than she remembered, leading to a finely carved gargoyle. Dumbledore whispered a word, and with a grinding of stone it moved aside, revealing a passage. A chill passed through her as she vividly remembered the last time she had come this way, just after her parents had died. She had been in shock, the world feeling dark and distant, as if she was looking down a long tunnel and her body was not entirely her own. She had wished so badly that Lily had been there beside her, rather than at home with her family.

Dumbledore’s office was more or less as she remembered it, packed floor to ceiling with dusty books, miscellaneous instruments and magical devices, and, of course, Albus’s prized phoenix, who looked at her with what seemed like suspicion.

The intensity of Fawkes’ gaze momentarily distracted her from what she had been furiously thinking the whole walk to the office. A glimpse of Severus Snape glowering in the corner brought it right back.

“What is _he_ doing here?” she demanded, her eyes raking over her old classmate before turning to Dumbledore, her mind spinning. “Shouldn’t he be rotting in Azkaban? Or under the _ground?”_  

“ _I_ ,” Snape replied, sneering, “am a professor at this school. The Potions Master, to be precise. And I was acquitted of all charges. You,” he paused, “are a fugitive; a disobedient child, finally come back after running away from home with a prized possession.”

“ _Severus_ ,” Albus warned again.

Daphne ignored him, matching his gaze fearlessly, even as she felt the soft tendrils of his Legilimency – Albus was always too curious for his own good – bouncing off her own Occlumency shields. “Albus. What is this… _Death Eater_ doing, teaching at this school? With _students_?”

Snape bristled at her words, but Dumbledore managed to speak first. “Severus has made many mistakes in his past, but he has renounced his old ties. I was in need of a Potions Master following the…departure of his predecessor, and Severus was willing to redeem himself by filling his shoes.”

Daphne had a lot of things to say about someone like Snape performing community service by teaching _children_ , but held her tongue. This was not why she was here. 

Minerva, as always, asked the question they were all waiting for. 

“Daphne…where on earth have you _been_?”

“Around,” she replied shortly. And truthfully, really. “From place to place, never really letting anywhere become a home. Raising my…my ward.”

My _son,_ she _didn’t_ say. After all this time, that was what Harry was to her, but it might be difficult for those who knew Lily and James to hear her use that word.

“We have been most anxious these many years,” Albus said gravely. “Your disappearance was… abrupt.” 

“I left a message,” she reminded them. “I said I was taking him away from all this, keeping him safe. And that is exactly what I did.” 

“Daphne, if I may say,” McGonagall began.

“Is that all?” Dumbledore interrupted, his gaze as intense and searching as Daphne had ever seen it.

“That’s all that mattered,” she replied defensively. 

Minerva would not be denied. “Daphne, surely you know…know who he is, to all of us, to the world…?” 

“He is Lily’s son,” she said with a hint of anger. “She was my best friend, and you failed to protect her. And her husband. So I did what you couldn’t.”

Albus suddenly looked very tired. “Daphne, you should have stayed. There were…considerations that needed to be discussed.”

“You would have taken him from me,” she said simply, ignoring McGonagall’s gasp. “You would have taken Harry from me, and given him to Lily’s wretched sister.”

Dumbledore didn’t deny it. He sat back in his chair, adjusting his half-moon glasses. “And how did you come to that conclusion, I wonder?”

“The same way you did,” she said, keeping her voice calm. “Lily was always a remarkable witch, her skill at Charms almost unrivalled. There are few things that can even slow down a Killing Curse, let alone stop it. Most of them involve some form of blood protection. The closer the link between the caster and the subject, the stronger the bond. It’s hard to think of a bond fiercer than that between a mother and her child.”

Daphne said the words confidently, but truthfully, some of it was guesswork, and it was not the only explanation. But it seemed like the one Dumbledore would have come to with a similar amount of insight.

“Remarkable,” Dumbledore said, and he did sound vaguely astonished. “I arrived at the very same conclusion.”

“Blood magic that strong is transferrable within a family,” she continued. “Petunia is his only living family. It would have protected both him and her family. Am I close, Albus?”

“Extremely, Miss O’Connor.” 

“Dressler,” she corrected. “Madam Dressler, if you would.”

“As you wish,” Dumbledore conceded with a nod. “If you knew this, why did you take him away? He would have been safe with his aunt and her family.”

“Safe from the Dark Lord, perhaps. Not safe from any less supernatural danger. Not safe from _them_.”

Dumbledore gaped. “Daph…Madam Dressler…surely you cannot be suggesting….”

“I don’t trust those Muggles, Albus,” she said. “And that’s the end of it. Petunia is a jealous fool and her husband is a thoughtless brute. I wasn’t going to let them raise Lily’s son. Not while I drew breath. Besides,” she finished, “I didn’t know that my theory was right until you just confirmed it. When I rescued him, I knew almost nothing. It took me years to put it together.” 

She stared hard at him. “But you knew, didn’t you? You had ways of watching them.” She felt her eyes narrowing to slits, heard the blood pounding in her ears. “And you did _nothing_."

“Daphne!” McGonagall burst out. “That’s quite enough! Think about what you are saying. Albus did _everything_ he could. By the time the wards had been broken, it was too late. We were given no advanced warning of the attack.” 

“But you waited,” Daphne continued. “I had my own warnings in place, and when they were activated, I apparated there immediately. You…you weren’t there. Why? What did you know?”

Severus was oddly quiet, and Daphne smelled a rat. “Anything to say, _Snape_?”

The look of hatred in his eyes almost shook her. “ _Headmaster_?” he bit out.

“Daphne,” Dumbledore said, abandoning formality. “You must…you must understand that Severus came to me that night, with information. Crucial information. I believed the Fidelius Charm had been compromised. That was my first destination. But when we arrived…it was too late.”

“Black,” she hissed. “It was Black, wasn’t it?”

Dumbledore nodded slowly. “And he is now in Azkaban, paying for his crimes. On that count, justice has been served, Daphne.”

She nodded, getting her emotions back under control. She would revisit the revelations about Snape later. There was something that Albus did not want her to know, she was certain of it.

“I am,” she paused. “I am aware of _who_ he is, as you put it, Minerva. He is the _Boy-Who-Lived_. He is the infant saviour of the wizarding world. But he’s not any of that, not to me. To me, he is Lily’s son.”

“And James’ also,” McGonagall added firmly.

Daphne blinked. “Yes, of course,” she said, her voice hollow. “James and Lily’s son.”

“The spitting image of James at that age,” Minerva said in wonderment. “The resemblance is extraordinary.”

“But Lily Evans’ eyes,” Dumbledore said softly. Snape just glowered at all of them. “We’re fortunate the boy is so well-adjusted,” Dumbledore continued. “Considering the…uncertainty of your whereabouts all these years. I do have my concerns, however.”

Daphne breathed deeply before replying. “And you are welcome to them,” she said. “But don’t you dare second guess my parenting.”

Snape scoffed, and she gave him a look that could melt lead.

Albus frowned. “Daph…Madam Dressler, I assure you, I did not mean to imply-”

“I know _exactly_ what you were implying, Albus,” Daphne replied quietly. “Your concerns…were not unwarranted. But I would like to believe I have done well by him and by Lily.”

Minerva attempted to soothe hurt feelings. “I have no doubt that you did all you could, and having met him but briefly, he is a credit to you, Daphne. Though,” she paused. “I would not have expected his first request upon visiting Hogwarts would be to visit the Library. What exactly have you done to the boy?” Her tone was light, but somewhat challenging.

“I like to think that I brought out his inner Lily,” she said truthfully. “She was quite fond of books. As is he.”

That statement hung in the air for a moment before she added. “I’m afraid he’s inherited a love of flying as well, despite my best efforts.”

She could have sworn Minerva McGonagall’s eyes _glinted_ when she heard that. Already having dreams of James’ successor for Gryffindor, evidently. Privately, she was not so sure his House was set in stone. Harry was…different, from both of his parents. Lily had always been perceptive and quite shy in her earlier years. But neither was quite so…introspective as her ward seemed, even at the tender age of eleven. He reminded her…well, he reminded her of a young Daphne O’Connor in a large number of ways.

Was that a good thing? Should someone who was not even her own flesh and blood have imprinted on her so strongly? None of these were questions that could be found in a parenting manual, magical or Muggle.

Albus was speaking, and she looked up to catch the end. “…we do have a few questions regarding the boy, if you would be so kind as to answer them. I should think by your visit that he will be beginning his schooling at Hogwarts as expected, correct?”

“Yes,” she said. “And if you so desire, I will answer your questions.”

Minerva looked to Albus before turning back to her. “Daphne, your own…record is well known, and you are every bit Alastor Moody’s protégé. I have to ask…what magic does the boy already know? Is his knowledge significantly more advanced than his peers?”

Daphne sucked in air through her teeth. She had been expecting this one. “He knows enough to get by. I’ve always felt the Ministry rules against wand ownership and underage magic only served to discriminate against Muggleborns. He does not have his own wand, but I have lent him mine, and he has been an adept pupil. He also understands not to take such magic lightly.”

“Can you be more specific?” Minerva asked, probing.

“I’ve taught him a number of spells for self-defence, including the Disarming and Shielding Charms. Obviously he has struggled a bit, being so young and not using his own wand, but his progress has been admirable.” She paused. “And I have introduced him to the Stunning Spell, just in case things escalate.”

Minerva was taken aback. “Daphne, you sound like you expect him to be duelling in his first year!”

Daphne closed her eyes. “Don’t play the fool with me, Minerva. You know exactly how well trained some of the purebloods are when they get here. Given his…history...I’ve read the public accounts of the post-war trials - and acquittals. A number of children of those involved are either already attending or will be starting this year. Some of them may start trouble.”

“You are assuming a great deal about these students,” Snape said quietly. “One would think you would be above defaming children based on assumptions about their parents.”

Daphne turned on him. “I know _exactly_ what they are like, _Severus._ I was here the same time you were. Some of your…friends weren’t much older when they took the Mark. Such things stain families. Especially when guilty men are allowed to walk.”

“I think that we had best discontinue this line of discussion,” Dumbledore cautioned, once again heading off the younger witch and wizard. “Suffice to say he is advanced for his age. I hope that your precautions prove unnecessary.”

“And that the threat is to him, not from him,” Snape added darkly. “Are you sure he won’t use his…advantages to bully his fellow students? Such things _also_ run in families…”

“He’s nothing like James,” she said, truthfully. “You had best remember that.”

“Enough, you two!” McGonagall interjected. “You can refight the battles of your school days another time. Have a little respect for decorum.”

Daphne bit her tongue, but said nothing. “Are we done here?”

“Not quite,” Dumbledore replied. His eyes were full of concern, and he spoke slowly. “How much, exactly, does he _know?”_

Daphne was watching Harry carefully as they sat at a well-worn table in The Three Broomsticks, a warm mug of steaming butterbeer and the remnants of lunch before them. 

“What?” he said, a bit more aggressively than he meant. He was still a bit…off-balance…from his time at Hogwarts. There was a powerful, ancient energy there, all the more noticeable, it seemed, when the halls were almost empty of other witches and wizards. His body still seemed to hum faintly.

“I’m waiting for you to tell me what you were up to while I spoke with Dumbledore,” Daphne said simply, as if it were the obvious answer.

“The elf took me to the Library,” Harry said. “And I was nearly kicked out by the Librarian…”

“Pince, I bet,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Madam Terry was nearing retirement when I left in seventh year.”

Harry remembered Daphne telling him that she had never actually graduated or sat her NEWTs. The world grew more dangerous as the last war had raged on, and fewer and fewer students returned to Hogwarts after each break.

“Pince, yes,” Harry agreed. “She told me to leave, but then a professor found us and said she would look after me.” 

Daphne raised an eyebrow. “A professor?”

“Professor Sinistra,” Harry said, recalling the woman. “You might not know her; she’s only starting this year. Astronomy.” 

Daphne nodded. “Ah. Old Professor Betelgeuse finally retired? Or did he die? I wasn’t sure how old that man was, but his eyes were nearly gone by the end. Bit of a shortcoming for an Astronomy professor, but I suppose by that point he knew the sky better than anyone.” 

“I can’t imagine it changes all that much,” Harry replied with a smile.

“No,” she agreed. “Still, I think we all knew his days were numbered. Sinistra, you say? I can’t say I remember the name, but I suppose that’s not all that surprising. Was she a younger woman? Younger than me?” 

Harry frowned. “I don’t know.”

Daphne waved a hand. “Really, it’s no matter. I’m sure I can find the announcement of her hiring somewhere in one of the back issues of the _Prophet_.” She smiled. “Just want to make sure I’m familiar with the people who will be educating my ward.”

Harry made to reply, but was interrupted as a barmaid came over, waving her wand to levitate their dirty dishes. Half of her sandwich was uneaten, so Daphne turned around to stop her. The hood she had been wearing fell off in the process.

“Sorry, miss, I’m not quite finished...Rosie? Is that you?”

The barmaid, a plump woman probably a decade Daphne’s senior, smiled broadly in recognition. “I _thought_ that might be you, but couldn’t tell for sure! What in the blazes are you doing out here, Daphne? After so many years?”

Daphne seemed to freeze for a moment uncertainly, and then nodded slowly towards Harry. “He is why I’m here, Rosie.”

The woman’s eyes became even wider. “Daphne…that can’t be…can it?”

Harry was already getting tired of this. “I’m Harry Potter,” he offered. “I take it you know my guardian?”

“Of course! Daphne was one of my best customers back in the day! Your parents and their friends all were. And look at you, the spitting image of them!”

Daphne seemed to sense his distress. “It’s been much too long, Rosie. How is business?”

Business, it turned out, was quite reasonable, even if the volume of customers was a bit diminished outside of term time. It also turned out that Rosie, or Rosmerta, was not so much a barmaid as the owner of the Broomsticks, and had been for a number of years. She and Daphne clearly went back some ways, and Harry watched and listened with some confusion as the two nattered on about decades-old gossip like nothing had ever happened. Inevitably, the talk turned to those who were no longer here to celebrate with a good pint of butterbeer or a shot of firewhiskey. A few of the names Harry recognized, but even more were unfamiliar. It made sense, he supposed, that the pain of a war would be particularly acute to someone who ran an inn. So many men and women who came to let go of their troubles and relax for a day or night out who didn’t return, groups of inseparable friends who came back missing one or two members with a deep sadness in their souls.

Daphne deftly redirected the conversation away from the lost. Harry focused mainly on finishing his butterbeer, which was no longer as piping hot as it had been. Daphne’s lay mostly untouched, slowly cooling as she and Rosmerta spoke.

They parted warmly. Harry wondered if Daphne found it easier to talk to someone who had not known the Potters and their friends much more than anyone else, who saw her not as their friend but as an old customer, possibly a drinking buddy on occasion if he had heard correctly. He was not sure he had ever seen Daphne quite so…free.

 

 

On the way down from Hogwarts, they had decided they would make the best of their (less-than-legal) international portkey and do most of Harry’s school shopping. His guardian flung a handful of sparkling floo powder into the Broomsticks’ fire place, and beckoned Harry forward.

The journey was unpleasant. The ending, as Daphne picked their destination from a blur of fireplaces in the chaos of light and sound that was floo travel, possibly more so, as Harry was not prepared and so toppled arse-over-tea kettle to crash hard into a table against the opposite wall. He lay there, dazed, as Daphne hurried to his side. A look of utter dread vanished as she saw his pride was more hurt anything else, and then she stifled a laugh as she extended a hand.

Harry stubbornly refused to take it, instead reaching out to one belonging to the occupant of the table he had just been so rudely introduced to. 

It belonged to an elderly wizard, with a bright purple hat sitting atop a wrinkled and tanned face and curls of white hair. His eyes widened as he brought the dishevelled young boy to his feet. “In Merlin’s name!” the wizard gasped. “Could this be? Are you the Potter boy? After all these years.”

Harry nodded uncertainly.

The old wizard laughed wheezily. “Bless my beard, you are, aren’t you! Dedalus Diggle, that’s my name, a great friend of your parents, I was. Fought right along with them when I was younger!”

“What’s all this about, Diggle?” The man behind the bar asked. Harry felt Daphne’s hand on his shoulder, but it was too late.

“You won’t believe this, young Tom, but this here…this here is Harry Potter! The _Boy-Who-Lived!_ ”

A chorus of whispers and hushed voices erupted. “No! It can’t be? Are you mad? I don’t believe it! _Harry Potter?_ Surely not?”

Daphne tried to pull Harry back and escort him out of the pub but they were quickly engulfed by an awestruck mass of witches and wizards, all of whom wanted a glimpse of Harry and kept congratulating him for things he could not even remember.

“Mr. Potter, welcome back, my boy, welcome back,” a tall wizard said, grasping Harry’s hands with shaking arms. Harry just stared back at him, overwhelmed.

There were several flashes of flight and excited cries from his right. Was something taking his photograph?

An ancient-looking witch seized his right arm, shaking with excitement. “Doris Crockford, Mr. Potter. So nice to finally meet you.”

“Mr. Potter-”

“That’s enough,” Daphne snapped. Several people gasped, either at her scars or in recognition. “The boy is eleven years old, and here you are, practically smothering him! Show a little courtesy, don’t you?” A number of the gathered crowd had the decency to look guilty, and Harry let himself breathe slowly. Daphne grasped his hand “Come, Harry, let’s be on our way.”

They managed to escape the crowd, ducking through a side door to emerge into an empty alley. Daphne drew Harry into her arms. “Are you alright, Harry? That was a lot to take in. I should have put the Glamour back in place. I’m sorry.”

“I’m fine,” Harry said “just rattled.” He thought better of telling Daphne that regardless of the reception it brought, he did _not_ want the Glamour Charm. He was tired of hiding who he was. “Is this what it’s going to be like at Hogwarts, too?”

“Well, maybe at first. But if you behave like yourself, I expect people will leave you alone. You don’t call attention to yourself, you know.” She paused. “Well, most of the time, anyway.”

Harry smiled a bit at that. “Good. So what’s first?”

“Gringotts. Then…let’s see, how about the bookstore? You’ll love Flourish and Blotts, I’m certain of that.” 

Harry look pleased at the prospect, so she grabbed his hand, and they set off for the bank.

Harry could not help but grin widely at he took in the sights, sounds, and smells of Diagon Alley. He even felt some kind of tingle in the air, as if the magic around him was truly palpable. He was so engrossed in this new world that he was taken by surprise when Daphne came to a halt. 

Turning, his wide eyes took in the formidable façade of Gringotts Wizarding Bank. The impressive building loomed above the street, dwarfing the buildings around it, cast in shining white marble, supported by tall columns in the classical style, elegant and majestic. He noticed the warning on the doors, a none-to-subtle warning that stealing from Gringotts was absolute madness and carried with it a terrible price. Harry was quite interested to get a glimpse of a goblin. He’d ready plenty about them and knew they were extremely intelligent and not at all fond of wizards, resenting them for centuries of mistreatment. He mostly hoped to make a good first impression.

They walked up to the first unoccupied teller, who did not seem to notice them at first, engrossed in counting numbers. “Five-hundred and eighty-six galleons, forty-six sickles, and two knuts, at four percent annual interest…can I help you?” the goblin asked after a deliberate pause, his ‘surprised’ smile not even approaching his eyes.

“If it wouldn’t be an inconvenience,” Harry said firmly, but courteously. 

The goblin looked a bit puzzled by his deference. “Well, it _is_ my duty to serve our customers, after all. Now, your account would be under the name of..?”

“Potter,” Harry said quietly, glancing around to make sure no one else might hear them. “I’m Harry Potter.”

The goblin smiled, a kind of grin that fully displayed his yellow teeth. You normally didn’t want a goblin looking at you like that, but somehow Harry knew the goblin was pleased, not anticipating vengeance. Daphne's hand rested reassuringly on his shoulder.

“Ah, Mr. Potter. It’s been quite some time since I last had a chance to manage your account. I am Griphook, and by happy circumstance, I am the Keeper of your family’s vaults." 

Harry responded politely. “That is excellent news. Vault-Keeper Griphook. I would like to make a withdrawal.”

Griphook again seemed a bit surprised by the formal address, but Daphne had warned him in advance. He turned his sharp gaze to Harry’s guardian. “And you, Madam?”

“Dressler. Daphne Dressler, Vault-Keeper. I would also like to make a withdrawal, as well as transfer some money from my account to the Talon Bank in Claw’s Clan, one of your affiliates, I believe.”

The goblin nodded, his eyes still on Harry, gazing at him with an unnerving intensity. “Mister Potter, Madam Dressler, do you have your keys?”

“I have mine. I’m afraid Harry’s was…lost,” Daphne replied.

The goblin peered at him. “Well, Mr. Potter’s situation is understandable. No matter. If he is willing to provide some blood, we will be able to open his vault without any further difficulties.” Harry wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that, and glanced wordlessly at his guardian.

She smiled reassuringly. “Don’t worry Harry. All you need to do it touch the vault door and be willing to surrender a drop or two.”

Harry nodded, but said nothing. He was still recovering from the incident in the Leaky Cauldron, and didn’t really trust his mouth at the moment.

Griphook led them down a dark corridor, through a set of heavy double doors, watched over by an older goblin with a short sword at his belt who glowered at them as they passed by. A cart sat on the tracks in front of them. Griphook saw them both in, before he climbed into the front, tapped his fingers, and set them in motion.

They picked up speed rapidly, the walls rushing past until they emerged into what seemed like an endless cavern, other tracks faintly visible in the darkness. There were flashes of light and heat from below, but he could not see the source. Abruptly, the car slowed, then came to a halt. His stomach felt a bit uneasy.

“Vault 514,” Griphook called.

His guardian got out of the cart and walked to the door, waving off the goblin. “I’d like to see if this still works,” she said. He looked sceptical, but stood aside.

“ _The End of Days,_ ” she said quietly, but clearly. There was the sound of whirring gears and motors, and the door opened. Daphne smiled sadly, while Griphook looked impressed. 

Harry climbed out of the cart and followed her into the vault. Mountains of galleons, sickles, and knuts were piled around the interior, along with countless treasures and artefacts that seemed to be family heirlooms. Harry wasn’t surprised; the Dresslers were a very wealthy pureblood family, and he understood that the contents of the O’Connor vault had been added after her marriage. After Daphne gathered a bag full of coins, she walked over the treasures and removed several pieces of jewellery, included a magnificent tiara. Harry saw tears in her eyes as she held the priceless and beautiful artefact up to the light, emerald rays shining through the chamber. She gathered it into a bundle, and shrank it so that it fit in her bag. She looked over a few more of the objects, selecting a few, before she turned back to face him, her eyes closed. 

“Daph?” Harry asked cautiously.

She looked to him sadly. “Sorry, Harry. I wore it on my wedding day. Edmund adored it,” she said by way of explanation. “Said it brought out my eyes…we...we decided to put it back here with some of our more valuable possessions...until we moved back to the Manor...when it was...safe...”

Harry knew that Daphne had never gotten over losing her husband so soon into their marriage. He also knew that she had remained unattached in the ten years he had lived with her. She still wore her rune-inscribed silver wedding ring, and had been quite short with a few overly friendly men in the past. 

They got back onto the cart, and Harry asked a question that had been wearing at him since she had mentioned Gringotts. “Aunt Daph, how wealthy were my parents?” Harry didn’t want to sound arrogant or anything like that, he just wanted to know what to expect. 

“Quite wealthy, Harry,” she said, staring off into the distance, as she did often when she talked of Lily and James. “The Potters are an old family, and the Evans’ were middle-class Muggles.” She sighed disgustedly. “Petunia, your _real_ aunt, distanced herself from the family because of her jealousy of Lily’s abilities and happy marriage, and then she got much less from the wills when they were killed in a car crash about a year after Lily and James married.” 

She smiled fondly at him. “Rest assured, even if your parents had been poor as paupers, I would have given you whatever you needed.” She shook her head slowly. “I love you, Harry, and you are all I have.”

Harry smiled at her in return as the cart started to move. “I love you too, Daph.”

After several sharp turns and dips, they arrived at Harry’s vault. “Vault 687,” Griphook announced. “Over here, Mr. Potter. Please place your right hand on this spot, and it will open for you,” he said, indicating a panel on the left side of the vault door. “If you _are_ a Potter, that is” he added menacingly, a bit of disturbing glee in his voice. “If you _aren’t_ , you will be incinerated.”

Harry gulped. 

Placing his hand where Griphook instructed him to, Harry felt a prick, an odd sucking sensation, and saw a red stain appear beneath his hand. The blood disappeared into the door, and with a whir of gears and motors, the vault door swung open.

Harry stepped in, and was pleasantly surprised to see several large piles of coins, though not nearly as large as those in Daphne’s family vault. It still looked like more than he thought he could ever spend, though from what Daphne had said, he had been anticipating something more on the scale of her vault. Quickly gathering as much as he could into a leather satchel, he walked back over to where Griphook and Daphne were standing.

She seemed to read his mind. “Keep in mind, Harry, that this is only your trust vault, which refills on an annual basis. The Potter Family Vault is much larger, am I correct, Master Griphook?”

The goblin nodded. “The Potter Family Vault is of considerable size, the largest for which I have custodianship. Mr. Potter will have full access when he comes of age.”

Daphne was looking at something curiously. She strode into the room, and then stopped short.

Harry came up to her, and traced her gaze. A small casket, adorned with his name in silver letters, sat on a disused vanity. Griphook followed her gaze. “Ah, yes. A peculiar object, that. Shortly before he met his end, James Potter came to Gringotts and moved that from his vault. I do not know the contents, and I’m afraid that it will not be accessible until the young Mr. Potter comes of age, or is emancipated.”

Daphne looked thoughtful, but puzzled. Harry wondered what his father might have left him. He knew so little about James, and only a little more about Lily. Daphne had loved them, and that was the problem. It hurt too much for her to talk about them for more than a few minutes at a time before she trailed off, lost in her thoughts. “It will make a good seventeenth-birthday present then,” Daphne said, her tone light but her eyes sad. 

They returned to the lobby, and Daphne went into a private room to have a discussion with one of the other goblins, while Harry took in the bustling scene around him. He spotted a giant man, the largest he’d ever seen, coming out of one of the other tunnels, tucking a small object into his massive overcoat. Harry caught a flash of red from the poorly wrapped package, but thought nothing else of it.

Thanking the goblin that accompanied him, the man started forward, before coming to a halt, his black eyes locking onto Harry, taking in his appearance with dawning realization. “ _’Arry?”_ he asked, as if unwilling to believe it was true.

“Yes?” Harry asked politely.

The giant man stared at him. “Got ter be. Just like ‘is dad, but ‘is mum’s eyes,” the giant muttered under his breath. “Harry Potter?” he asked hopefully. Taking a nervous glance around, Harry nodded.

“I haven’t seen yeh since yeh were a baby, a couple o’ months after yeh were born,” he said, with tears glistening in his eyes. “I held yeh that day. Where've yeh been all these years?" 

“With me, Rubeus,” Daphne said, as she emerged from the office, followed by a rather content-looking goblin. They bowed to each other, and Daphne moved over to stand beside her ward.

Rubeus’ eyes widened in surprise. “ _Daphne?_ So yeh did raise ‘im. _”_

She nodded curtly. “Indeed I did, Hagrid. It is nice to see you again.”

“Lily an’ James would been so proud of the job you’ve done,” he gushed. Harry blushed at the inherent praise, while Daphne smiled.

“It’s the least I could have done for my best friend’s son.”

“Of course,” Rubeus Hagrid said. “Time I get goin’. Dumbledore trusted me wit’ getting sommat. Great man, Dumbledore.” Daphne bowed her head briefly, and Hagrid nodded, and left.

“Daph, who was that?” Harry asked. The man seemed to know him quite well, even claiming to have held him as an infant.

“That was Rubeus Hagrid, the Groundskeeper at Hogwarts. He’s a…very interesting character. Loves magical creatures, especially dangerous ones, and he’s loyal to a fault. A Gryffindor, I think, but he might well have been a Hufflepuff. Dumbledore trusts him because of that loyalty, which I suppose is why he was sent to retrieve something from the vaults.” 

Harry perked up, wondering what it could have been “Really? I saw what he had withdrawn, I think. It was a small stone, maybe red? I didn't get a great look at it before he put it away.”

“Interesting,” Daphne said thoughtfully. “You have a good eye, Harry. Just like your mother.” Again, she said this staring off into the distance. Harry worried about her sometimes. It did not seem healthy to be unable to talk about her losses after ten years of grieving. But he was scarcely in a position to say anything - he never really knew his parents. Daphne was the only mother he could remember having, save a few scattered impressions that might have been his imagination rather than anything real.

They exited the bank, their money pouches much heavier than when they had entered, and walked back on to the cobblestones of Diagon Alley. “So, the bookstore now?” Harry asked, excited. Daphne nodded, and they set off.

 

 

They arrived at Flourish and Blotts in a few minutes, and Harry briskly walked inside. The building had obviously been enlarged by magic, because the interior was much larger than the exterior would seem to have allowed. Shelf after shelf of books were visible, and Harry’s eyes lit up. 

“Let’s get the school books first, Harry,” Daphne advised. "Then you can have some time to look at the rest."

They made their way over to the _Hogwarts_ section, and found the books on the list labelled under _First Year_. Harry grabbed _The Standard Book of Spells: Grade 1, A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration, One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi, Magical Drafts and Potions, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them,_ and _The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self Protection._ He already had a copy of _A History of Magic_ , one that he had covered in his own notes and comments from other sources he had read. After handing his schoolbooks off to his guardian, he began searching for some more reading material. Harry had decided he wanted to search for books that would give him background material on the world he was entering.

He spotted a bushy-haired girl in Muggle clothing eagerly flipping through the pages of a book emblazoned with the title  _Hogwarts: A History_ , and decided it sounded like a good place to start. He spotted one remaining copy, and pulled it off the shelf, tucking it under his arm. He then saw a book called _Quidditch Through the Ages_ , and thought it would be best if he learned about the popular wizard sport given his interest in flying. He also found three other books, _Famous Witches and Wizards of the Past Five Hundred Years, The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts,_ and _Useful Charms and Spells for the Young Witch or Wizard._ Making his way over to his guardian, he showed her his selections. She shook her head but smiled when she saw the Quidditch book.

Daphne led him over to Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions, and began browsing while she waited for an attendant. Harry spotted a boy his age with sandy-brown hair who was arguing with his mother in a light Irish accent. Daphne stopped and smiled at the boy’s mother, who stared back at her in confusion, then Harry saw recognition flash in her eyes.

“It’s good to see you again, Ellie,” Daphne said, extending her hand. The other witch took it, looking a bit startled as her eyes traced over Daphne’s scars.

“My, my, Daphne O’Connor. It’s sure been a long time.”

“It certainly has. I married Edmund.” Harry noticed that Daphne’s accent, generally very subdued, had become much clearer in response to the other woman’s Irish lilt.

The other woman slapped her forehead. “Merlin, I forgot. How terribly rude of me. I was so sorry to hear of your loss. Myself, I met a Muggle, Ian Finnegan, and it was love at first sight. Bit of a shock when I told him I was a witch, but it all worked out. This is Seamus,” she said, placing her hand on the boy's shoulder proudly. “He’s starting his first year at Hogwarts.”

“Mine too. This is Harry, Lily and James’s son.”

Ellie gaped. “ _You_ raised Harry Potter? Merlin, they said he’d gone into hiding, but of course, they never said where…”

“Indeed,” Daphne said quickly, indicating the conversation was not going any further it that direction.

Seamus and Harry exchanged nervous greetings, and Harry saw Seamus staring at him in awe. Finally he looked away, reddening a bit with embarrassment.

Their purchases made, the Finnegans left. Harry was quickly fitted for his robes by one of Madam Malkin’s assistants. They left the shop still making good time, and Harry checked his list.

“Well, I still need a cauldron, potions ingredients, and a few more things.”

Daphne thought about it for a moment. “Let’s get your wand now, Harry. To Ollivander’s we go. We’ll take care of the rest afterwards.”

 

A very pleased Harry followed her to the shop-front of a small, shabby-looking wooden building with a wand lying on a purple pillow in the windowsill. The sign above it read: _Ollivander’s: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC_. Harry and Daphne walked inside and found it empty. Harry gave his guardian a questioning look, but she just smiled and looked around expectantly. 

Sure enough, a man that could only be Mr. Ollivander appeared, clinging onto a tall ladder that slid around the shelves of wands on a wheeled track. He was a bald man with piercing silver eyes.

“Mr. Potter. I wondered when I’d be meeting you,” he said by way of greeting. “And Miss O’Connor…pardon me, Madam Dressler…”

“10 ¼ inches, birch, triple braided unicorn tail hair, very precise and balanced,” Daphne and Ollivander said simultaneously.

Ollivander smiled. “Ah, always good to see that you remember as well as I.”

The wandmaker now turned on him, a frightening intensity behind his spectacles, looking at Harry as though evaluating a rare piece of jewellery. “Now, Mr. Potter. I remember your parents as well. You father’s wand: 11 inches, mahogany, pliable, single unicorn tail hair, powerful and good for Transfiguration. You resemble him in all ways but one. Your mother’s eyes; her wand: 10 ¼ inches, swishy, willow, a core of dragon heart-string, excellent for charm work.”

Ollivander straightened, looking deep into Harry’s eyes. “The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Potter. Even if the reasons are not clear at the time, it has always been this way. Now, if you will.” A tape measure flew up and began to take Harry’s measurements, including the width between his eyes and the size of his forehead.

Ollivander disappeared again on his ladder. He returned later with a large pile of crumpled, dusty boxes.

“12 inches, unicorn hair, maple. Give it a wave,” he said, handing the wand to Harry. It felt cold in his fingertips. Ollivander knew it was wrong before he even had a chance to use it, and snatched it away. “No, not at all - No matter, there are many more to try.”

After another quick rummage through the pile, he handed over another.

“9 inches, dragon heart-string, willow, very stiff.” Harry took the wand and waved it, causing a tank of water to explode. Ollivander took the wand back. “I think not.”

And so it went. Harry tried in excess of twenty wands, to no avail. But it didn’t discourage the shop owner, instead, Harry was certain he was close to wetting himself from excitement. He came out of the back again, cradling a beaten grey box as if it were the crown jewels. “I wonder, I _wonder_. Try this, Mr. Potter.” 

Harry took the wand, and felt warmth spread through his fingertips, up his arm, and into his core. He waved the wand in an arc, and the store lit up with sparks of blue, silver, and gold. A soft, beautiful trill was heard. Somehow, Harry knew what it was: Phoenix song. He had found his wand.

Ollivander was staring at him in wonder. “Ah, yes. Curious. _Very curious indeed._ But who am I to question?” 

Harry frowned. “Excuse me, sir. But what is _curious_ about my wand?” 

“Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple. Oh yes. Very curious. You see, my boy, it is indeed curious that this would be your wand when its brother, why, its brother, _gave you that scar._ ”

Harry stared at him.

“ _Voldemort’s_ wand is a brother to mine?” he said, incredulously. He glanced over at Daphne, who looked a bit pale.

“Indeed, Mr. Potter. This is a powerful wand, as was the one that belonged to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Yew, thirteen and a half inches. Very powerful, more powerful than even yours, I would say. It will be quite _interesting_ if your wands are ever to meet.”

“Ollivander, have you ever seen anything like that scar before?” Daphne asked abruptly.

The old man shook his head, not really looking at her. “Not precisely. Magic can leave an indelible mark upon the flesh in some circumstances, but the precision…I must say I am as ignorant as you, Madam Dressler.” His eyes remained fixed on Harry, as if he was trying to place him from somewhere.

Harry was getting nervous, and Daphne knew it. She cleared her throat, and Ollivander snapped out of the trance that had held him since Harry had first grasped his new wand. “Well, thank you for your help. We’ll be going now.” 

“Of course, of course. You must understand, it is not so common for me to experience something so extraordinary. You have the mark of destiny upon you, my boy. You will do great things with that wand, of that I have no doubt. Good luck, Mister Potter.”

His guardian politely thanked the man and Harry paid seven galleons for his wand, before hurrying out of the shop. After assuring Daphne that he was fine, and that he understood that his wand didn’t mean he had anything to do with Voldemort, they set off to the Apothecary. He purchased scales and a pewter cauldron, as well as necessary first year potions ingredients. Daphne mentioned that Potions was one of Lily’s fortes, and that it was a matter of concentration and attention to detail. Harry hoped he’d inherited his mother’s skill, especially because the Potions Master did not seem terribly fond of him.

 

 

Next, Daphne said that she would buy Harry an owl of his own. They entered Eeylop’s Owl Emporium and began looking over the available birds. They looked at eagle owls, screech owls, and barns owls, but Harry didn’t see any he really liked. Daphne said he could use Yancy, but Harry wasn’t listening, as his gaze had been captured by a beautiful snowy owl with shining amber eyes. Daphne nodded her approval of the gorgeous creature, and they bought the owl.

Harry named her Hedwig, after a famous fourteenth-century charms witch. He purchased a cage and owl treats for his new familiar, and they set off back to the Leaky Cauldron. As they passed by Quality Quidditch Supplies, Harry’s eye was drawn to a display in the window. He stepped closer to the Nimbus 2000, the newest model of racing broom on the market, and was impressed by the specifications, much better than Daphne’s old Cleansweep. Still, First Years couldn’t have their own brooms, so there was no point in asking. Daphne walked over to him, and let out a small chuckle.

“Just like your father.”

Harry turned and looked at her questioningly. “James was a Chaser for most of his career at Hogwarts, save one year he was a Seeker when their starter was injured,” Daphne explained. “He was good too, and a bit cocky, if I do say so myself. Lily refused to date him until he deflated his head a bit.”

Harry laughed at the mental image. She smiled. “I’ll tell you what. I won’t deny James some claim over you. _If_ you can make the House team at any time, I’ll buy you the newest model broom.”

Harry beamed at that. “Though it probably won’t be this year.” 

“Most likely not, though you never do know,” Daphne replied, laughing.

In good spirits, they returned to the Leaky Cauldron. Harry’s second floo trip wasn’t much better than the first, as he hurtled headfirst out of the fireplace, Daphne laughed as she saw her nephew try to disentangle himself from the couch. “Well, Harry, we seem to have found something you _aren’t_ very good at.”

Harry scowled at her.

The house-elves came in and greeted them, promising dinner, and Harry and Daphne decided they might as well stay the night. Floppy, Yonky, and their daughter, Tutty, were thrilled. After a delicious meal ten years in the making, Harry and Daphne retired for the night, Harry reading his new copy of _Hogwarts: A History_ until he fell asleep, dreaming of a day where he was older and gazing up at the majestic castle, knowing it had become his home.  

 

 

Harry awoke the next day and got dressed. After a quick bath, he ran down the staircase to the ground floor and ran into the dining hall, where Daphne was sitting at a long table of polished wood, scowling at something. The house-elves were busily running about, preparing breakfast and wearing pleased expressions. They obviously enjoyed the opportunity to serve their masters after so long on their own. 

Harry approached his aunt, and looked over her shoulder to see what she was scowling at. “Skeeter cow,” she muttered under her breath. She followed his gaze, frowning. “Harry, it’s garbage, you don’t need to read it.”

Harry frowned. “Is Skeeter a writer?”

“That’s a polite way of putting it. She’s a vindictive, nasty harpy for the Prophet. That’s why she makes hundreds of galleons. People read the garbage she writes.”

“Let me see,” he said, and took the newspaper from Daphne. He stared at the front page, which had an image of him shrinking away from Doris Crockford while Daphne glowered in the background, underneath a large banner headline.

****

**_Boy-Who-Lived Returns to England_ **

_By Rita Skeeter_

_On Halloween Night, 1981, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named met his end at the hands of an infant, Harry Potter. That same day, the only known survivor of You-Know-Who’s wand disappeared under mysterious circumstances, and for nearly ten years, the only information the wizarding world had about its saviour was that he was ‘in hiding.’ Why the Boy-Who-Lived would need to be in hiding so long after the last of You-Know-Who’s followers were rounded up was unknown._

_Yesterday, the sixteenth of August, nearly ten years to the day, Harry Potter made his first appearance in public in the Leaky Cauldron. Mr. Potter was mobbed by the patrons of the establishment, including your own Daily Prophet Correspondent. The Boy-Who-Lived appeared to shy away from the attention, and the fear in his wide green eyes was evident from across the room. His forehead was marked by a remarkable scar in the shape of a lightning bolt, speculated by some to be a relic of his defeat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named ten years ago. He fled the scene soon after with his guardian. The identity of the Boy-Who-Lived’s protector is interesting in and of itself._

_Defending the eleven-year old’s privacy was none other than Daphne Dressler, the famed ex-Auror. Madam Dressler, whose husband Edmund was killed during the war, was known as being deadly with a wand. One of her trainers said that she, “was always aware of her surroundings, maintained a level head at all times, and was the best duellist she had ever met.” Others were not quite as complimentary, with one Ministry employee, speaking on the condition of anonymity, saying, “she was alright, at least until that business with her husband. She’s good, one of the best I’ve seen, but I saw Dark in her, and I didn’t like it. She was a little bit scary.”_

_Mrs. Dressler, (formerly O’Connor) 31, is best known for the capture of Thomas Mulciber and Addison Jugson, two of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s Death Eaters, as well as participating in the arrest of the infamous McCourns. She also played a role in the capture of the spy Augustus Rookwood, who passed key information to his master from within the Ministry itself. It is rumoured that Dressler killed Evan Rosier, one of You-Know-Who’s most feared followers._

_But as great an Auror and duellist she may have been, the question is: What is this dangerous woman doing with the saviour of the wizarding world’s care in her hands? Is she fit to raise a child, with such a violent past? Has she passed on her combat tactics to young Mr Potter, turning him into a weapon at the tender age of eleven? One must wonder what Albus Dumbledore, who first announced that Harry Potter had gone into hiding, was thinking when he allowed this._

_A noted St. Mungo’s healer, specializing in mental illness, offered his opinion. “I believe that Dressler may have taken Mr. Potter without the knowledge of Albus Dumbledore. She was quite close to the boy’s mother, if memory serves me. She may have been hurting from the loss of her husband, and taken the boy as a substitute. It’s anyone’s guess how he could emerge from that kind of situation, but I would be concerned.”_

_This Daily Prophet reporter again wonders why Albus Dumbledore has allowed a potentially unbalanced and very dangerous woman to take care of the Boy-Who-Lived for ten years. Only time will tell if he has made a monumental error._

 

Harry put the paper down, taking in his guardian’s aggravated expression. “Well, it could be worse? She complimented your skill, and didn’t even mention your scars. Just because she doesn’t know you like I know you doesn’t make you a bad person.”

Daphne stared at him for a moment and then laughed. “You amaze me sometimes, do you know that?”

“ _Thanks,_ ” Harry mumbled, blushing at the praise. He thought back to Skeeter’s mention of his own scar, as well as his photo splashed across the front page. He would be instantly recognizable now, and that made him somewhat uncomfortable.

Later that day, they portkeyed back to Claw’s Clan. It had certainly been an eventful day.


	4. Sorted Affairs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry arrives at Hogwarts, and things don't go quite as well as he hoped.

Harry lay back in bed, his new copy of _Hogwarts: A History_ lying open across his chest, staring up at the enchanted stars of his bedroom ceiling. They twinkled faintly, the moon high and bright above his head just as it was outside the cottage, bathing his room in pale white light. Tomorrow his life was going to change forever. Tomorrow he take his first steps up the path to becoming a real wizard.

And he would have to do it without Daphne there to guide him.

What wonders would Hogwarts hold for him? He’d been awestruck by the castle, the vastness of it all, the sheer architectural impossibility, absurd but wonderful at the same time. He had felt the magic pulsing through the very bones of that castle, ancient and powerful beyond anything he could understand. 

But in going there, he would also be leaving the friends that he had grown close to over the past couple of years, the first he had been able to really get to know before Daphne spirited him away, sometimes without even a chance to say goodbye. He knew he would miss Patricia and Connor and some of the others at school. And despite only spending two years here, he would miss the waves crashing over the rocks of Newfoundland’s shore at the sheltered port of Torbay. There he had often gone for a walk after his morning lessons at the small primary school organized for the children of the witches and wizards in the village, sometimes accompanied by his friends, before Daphne would take him home.  

Home. He _would_ miss Claw’s Clan, and all it represented – a safe haven from the world, from the tragedy and darkness of his and his guardian’s pasts. More than any of the places he had lived with Daphne, this place was perhaps the first and only one that he thought of when he heard the word ‘home.’ But James Callaghan - a precocious but mostly unremarkable eleven-year old boy with no grand destiny writ in the stars or pivotal role in the end of the last war in wizarding Britain - had effectively ceased to be.

In his place was Harry Potter, and perhaps that was the most terrifying aspect of it all.

As he read about the Sorting (though the book was maddeningly short on specifics), it became clear that for those young witches and wizards sent to Hogwarts it represented the threshold from childhood into adolescence; the moment where for centuries children from all different kinds of backgrounds took their first step into the broader magical community. Other schools had something similar, though none had the sort of lore and history of Hogwarts. Four houses, founded by four remarkable people almost a thousand years ago, designed to bring out and nurture those qualities that they found most laudable in young witches and wizards.

He had read descriptions of the House in books; read of their different traits, read of their histories and of the legacy of their founders. But there was only one person that could give him the answers he craved.

And so he had asked her. 

 

* * *

 

 

“Daph,” Harry said, after they finished cleaning up after dinner. “What can you tell me about the Houses?”

His adopted mother looked up from her book, marking her place and neatly setting it aside. She seemed to have been expecting this. 

She tilted her head thoughtfully. “Well, there are four of them. Hufflepuff, Gryffindor, Slytherin, and Ravenclaw. I’m sure you knew that already,” she added hastily. “Let’s see…well, broadly speaking, Hufflepuffs are known for loyalty and diligence, Slytherins for cunning and ambition, Ravenclaws for intelligence and prudence, and Gryffindors for courage and daring. Now, I want you to keep in mind that these are broad generalizations. People are placed in Houses because of family history, bloodlines, even sometimes because they desire a certain House over another.” 

Daphne seemed to be reciting a speech to him, but nonetheless he listened in rapt attention. “You are going to meet people that say certain houses are better or worse. You are going to meet Gryffindors who think all of the Slytherins are pureblood supremacists who support the Dark Arts. While it is true that many of Voldemort’s Death Eaters were Slytherins, remember that Rufus Scrimgeour, the leader of the Aurors and as fierce a crusader against the Dark Arts as you’ll ever find, was a Slytherin. My husband, Edmund, who came from a long line of Light wizards, was a Slytherin. Ambition in pursuit of noble goals is a laudable quality, just as courage without prudence or good judgment can cause terrible harm.” 

She frowned. “You can’t believe what ignorant children - or adults - tell you, Harrry. Not all Gryffindors are Light wizards, or even necessarily that brave. Hufflepuffs are not easily-led and cowardly, as you’ll hear far too many people say. Ravenclaws are not all clever, let alone wise. I know that from experience, though I am certainly proud of my house."

She looked directly into his eyes. "But what it comes down to is that the Houses are made up of children, and the will of the Founders doesn’t really enter into it as much as you would think.” 

His confusion must have shown, because she sighed fondly.

“What I’m telling you, Harry, is that you need to keep an open mind. Just because your parents were both Gryffindors doesn’t mean you will be. And I couldn’t care less which House you are sorted into. As long as you learn and grow, and become the wizard that I know you can be, I’ll be happy and proud of you. Don’t feel pressured to go into one house or another, and don’t feel pressure to do things that a person your age shouldn’t be expected to do. You’ll find a home in whichever House you end up in, I promise. Does that help?”

Harry nodded. Hearing the words from her seemed to lift an anxious weight from his shoulders that his own musings could not.

He noted her defence of Slytherin House, which, as she had intimated, had quite a bad reputation among wizards. Then again, she had fallen in love with a Slytherin, so she would have a bit of soft spot for them, wouldn't she? 

“Thanks," he said. Then he frowned. "How are we Sorted, anyway? There isn’t any information in any of the books about it.”

Daphne smiled. “Even if I wanted to tell you, I couldn’t. A charm is placed upon every Sorted student that prevents them from discussing it with anyone who hasn’t been Sorted. It’s rather silly, really, but it’s tradition, and who are we to argue with tradition?" She reached out to gently squeeze his shoulder. "I promise, you'll be perfectly fine. Remember, Hogwarts accepts every magical child born within the borders of the British Isles who wants to attend. Do you think they could make you do anything that the least powerful wizard couldn’t do? Or the most inexperienced Muggleborn?"

“Of course not,” Harry said. He frowned, suspicious. “Is it really that easy?”

Daphne just smiled that maddeningly knowing smile. “You’ll find out, dear.”

 

* * *

 

Of course, he understood _why_   Daphne had said what she said about the Houses, and why she had sought to remove any expectations that he or others might have placed on him regarding which one he belonged to. She knew all too well that he tended to push himself further than he should under any kind of pressure.

Even so, he didn’t want to let her down, not when she had given him so much: a childhood, a parent, a warm and loving home, and if she were to be believed, rescue from the hands of his mother’s terrible relatives. But more than anything he could read, her words had helped to put his mind at ease. Whatever House he called home, she would accept him.  

Harry loved her - his aunt, his guardian, his mother in all but blood - more than anyone else in the world. He simply couldn’t imagine a life without her. Harry knew that it was going to be difficult, separated by an ocean, but hoped that he’d be happy and be able to exchange letters frequently, so that maybe she would not feel quite so far away. 

But he also knew he was too reliant on her, and that he would have to grow up eventually. He needed to learn to be independent, and this was a way to start. Daphne had often fretted that Harry spent so much time by himself or with her, and so little with others his own age, when he wasn’t at school. She felt very guilty for moving so frequently, and for his subsequent difficulty in keeping friends. 

Maybe this would be good for Daphne, too. Maybe she could live a life separate from raising and protecting him. She deserved that, too. _She deserves everything_ , he thought. 

The magical stars twinkled, and the enchanted moon shone. With a sigh, Harry set down his book, pulled the covers up to his chin, closed his eyes, and tried to relax.

A whole new world awaited him the next day

 

 

 

The sun had not yet crawled above the horizon when Harry found himself shaken awake. Harry let out a yelp and almost fell out of bed, absently noting that his scar burned dully. It was still dark outside, at which point Harry realized that, due to time zone differences, he was lucky to _only_ have been awoken at half four in the morning. “I knew we should have spent the night in England,” Daphne muttered. Harry fumbled for his glasses, the world becoming much clearer as they slid onto his nose. Daphne looked at him expectantly, but his slumbering brain refused to cooperate.

“Well? Up! Get Up!” she practically shouted. “We’ve got a little less than an hour and a half, and we still have an ocean to cross! Come on Harry!”

Spurred into motion, Harry tumbled out of bed, still partially tangled his sheets. Daphne, looking as though she had not bothered to sleep, was checking his room, looking for all the things he might have forgotten. “You are all packed, I see?" she said approvingly. "What about this?” she asked, holding up _Hogwarts: A History_ from where it had slid off the bed.

“Trunk,” Harry groaned, before stumbling to the toilet. When he returned, what little packing was left to be done had been finished, and his guardian was levitating his heavily laden trunk and a cage containing an indignant Hedwig out of his room and down the main staircase. After a quick shower, Harry ducked back into his room, changing into jeans and a jumper, throwing his school robes over that. He’d put on the rest on the train. 

Aware of the time constraints, Harry hustled downstairs and consumed a breakfast of bacon and eggs, as well as a goblet of pumpkin juice, some of which he actually inhaled when Daphne made a wry comment about his eating habits. Once Harry had finished coughing, both were in better spirits, and they moved the parlour, where Daphne’s old Cleansweep sat waiting, a faint blue glow surrounding it.

 

 

They touched down in the front hallway of Dressler Manor, sunlight just now flooding in through the great ground-floor windows, and after a quick greeting to the House-elves, Daphne and Harry made their way out into the daylight to the edge of the Manor's inner wards. From there his guardian transported them to the Apparition Point inside King’s Cross station. Harry checked the local time: half ten. The  _Express_ left at 11:00 sharp. Finding a trolley with little difficulty, they loaded Harry’s things onto it and made for their platform, weaving in and out of crowds of Muggles making their way into London for work. They stopped in front of a pillar that divided platforms 9 and 10, and Harry gave Daphne a questioning glance. Smiling, she pointed at the bricks. “That’s a magical barrier. Just run at it and believe you’ll make it through." Her smile turned to a smirk. "Or don’t. But it’s less of a shock that way, I promise.”

Following his guardian’s advice, Harry walked confidently toward the pillar. The second he should have hit the bricks, he felt a wash of magical energy and suddenly found himself on the hidden Platform 9 and 3/4, stumbling slightly as he remember to move out of the way. Daphne followed calmly, pushing his trolley and his increasingly irritated owl. On the tracks in front of him was a majestic scarlet steam engine trailed by a line of old-fashioned train carriages, red and black with polished brass trim. He had read that the  _Hogwarts Express_ was powered by magic, but it was also a relatively rare example of wizards coveting and adapting Muggle technology, and caused quite the stir at the time. 

As he and Daphne made their way across the busy platform, dodging around families and all manner of loose familiars, Harry’s attention was drawn to a remarkably large concentration of redheads. He caught the names ‘Ron,’ ‘Percy,’ and ‘Ginny,’ spoken by a rather harried-looking matronly woman in a tattered green cloak. Daphne waved cheerfully at her as they approached.

“Who is that?” the woman asked, squinting in the morning light.  “Goodness me, is that you, Daphne?”

Daphne nodded. “Good to see you again, Molly.” A pair of identical twins had now joined the main group and were currently arguing with someone who could only be an exasperated older brother. Harry saw a nervous-looking young girl in an over-sized jumper hanging close to her mother. Their eyes met briefly, before she looked down at her feet. “Is she your youngest?” he heard his guardian ask.

“Oh yes. I think seven Weasleys is quite enough,” Molly replied tiredly. “Ronald is starting Hogwarts this year,” she said, gesturing proudly at the gangling boy in front of her, whose cheeks endeavoured to match the colour of his hair. Harry looked over the other members of the family.

Amidst the throng of wizards in their tailored robes and fine garments, this family stood out in their worn jumpers and threadbare cloaks. The twins, short and stocky, had apparently moved on from antagonizing their brother and now talking animatedly to a black boy with dreadlocks who was holding down the bucking lid of a crate, trying and failing to act casual in the process as he drew an ever-increasing crowd of curious students.

Harry’s gaze shifted back to the twins’ older brother, already wearing his school robes (trimmed with red and gold) with a 'P' emblazoned across the front, who was now talking to a blond-haired Ravenclaw in a rather pompous tone, adjusting his wire-frame glasses, probably complaining about the twins. That made five, so Harry supposed two children had graduated from Hogwarts already.

Daphne was making conversation with Molly Weasley, as Harry now knew she was called. Harry glanced at the clock to see they had seven minutes before the train was scheduled to depart. Harry dragged his trunk towards the baggage car, but after managing to secure a mercifully soundly-asleep Hedwig with a number of other owls, he found to his dismay that he wasn’t strong enough to lift his trunk in over all the others that had been loaded already. Furthermore, there seemed to be no one there to help the students get their things onto the train.

Glancing around to look for witnesses, as he recalled that young witches and wizards were not supposed to use magic outside of school until they were older, Harry subtly tapped the trunk with his new wand, concentrated, and cast a whispered Levitation charm, weaker than he would have liked but strong enough to allow him to wrangle his wobbling trunk into the rapidly filling compartment. He grinned in satisfaction, but then saw the bushy-haired girl from  _Flourish and Blotts_ looking at him with disapproval, before she turned back to two people in noticeable Muggle dress that must have been her parents. Despite himself, Harry felt a bit ashamed.

He moved aside as the other Weasleys hurried over to load up their own luggage, the twins now heckling their younger brother, Ron.

Harry made his way over to Daphne, inevitably drawing Mrs. Weasley’s attention. “And who is this, Daphne?” she asked, kindly.

Harry shifted uncomfortably. He got even more nervous when he saw Mrs. Weasley’s face light up in recognition. He looked all too much like his father; it was almost impossible to disguise his identity from anyone who had known James Potter. He saw the young girl, probably Ginny, also trying to sneak a glance at him from around her mother’s legs. 

“That’s my nephew, Harry,” Daphne said smoothly, drawing his attention. She was smiling at Molly, but Harry saw that her eyes were pleading. Abruptly, Molly nodded pleasantly and said nothing else, and much to his relief Harry knew she had understood.   

As the conductor announced the train’s imminent departure, Daphne pulled Harry out of the crowd and brought him to the shadows under one of the brick piers. She smiled sadly at him, and he saw the unshed tears glistening in her eyes. 

“I love you, Harry. Stay as safe as you can, and for Merlin’s sake, have fun. Don’t worry about me, this had to happen sooner or later.” She brushed his hair out of his eyes, sighing. “We both have gotten a little too comfortable living together. This will be good for both of us. Oh, Lily and James would have been so _proud_!” She pulled Harry into a fierce embrace, and gave him a kiss on the top of his head. 

Harry smiled at her fondly, his own eyes feeling a bit wet. “I’ll make you proud too, Daph.”

“I know you will,” she said, her voice gone hoarse. “Now go on. You don’t want to miss the train!”

As if to stop herself from delaying him further, she turned away, and Harry took that as his cue and boarded the train. He found an empty compartment in the third or fourth carriage he tried, not particularly wanting to talk to anyone at the moment. As he sat down, he heard familiar voices through the window.

“First time’s always the hardest, Daphne. His parents would have been proud of both of you.” 

“I know, Molly. You have to understand, he’s everything I have. It’s hard to let him go.” The emotion in her voice almost hurt to hear, and he could not help but feel a bit guilty. Somehow, in all the concern about his own situation, he had neglected to consider Daphne’s feelings. She would miss him terribly even if, as she said, it would be good for them to be apart for a little while.

Molly seemed intent on cheering her old friend. “He seems like a good boy. He’ll write often, I’m sure. 

“He is. And I know he will.” 

Harry felt warmth spread through his body as he heard Daphne talk about him. His spirits a bit higher, he pulled out his copy of _Quidditch Through the Ages_ from his carry bag _._ The train pulled away from the station, and Harry took a deep breath as he sought to control his own emotions. 

For the most part, his wish for privacy was granted; it helped that he had chosen one of the smallest compartments, right near the baggage car, with space for maybe four students altogether. A few students wandered the hallways, paying him no heed, and there was a Hufflepuff named Cedric who was looking for one of his mates, who seemed nice enough. At one point the same blonde girl that he had seen speaking to the twins’ brother came by and asked after him, giving her name as Penelope Clearwater and his as Percy. When Harry assured her again that he was alone by choice, she smiled kindly and left. No one asked about the scar, or Daphne, or the stories, and it was a blessed relief. He was nervous enough as it was. 

Otherwise, besides a visit from the food cart witch, Harry was able to read uninterrupted for the duration of the trip, finishing with a much greater understanding of Quidditch, and even some dreams of making a House team during his second year. He was even able to change into the rest of his school robes without having to leave his little sanctuary.

At they neared the end of the journey, he saw three boys with unmarked robes in the hallway outside the compartment: a haughty blonde boy followed by a pair of boys who had the look of bodyguards, rather than friends, even at the age of eleven. Harry guessed the leader was a pureblood of old family, just from the way he carried himself. They walked past without even looking into the compartment, and Harry breathed a sigh of relief. He did not like the look of those boys, not one bit. 

The train pulled into Hogsmeade station, and Harry gathered up his things and joined the queue of chattering students to alight onto the platform. The sun was beginning to set, the last slivers of daylight washing over the beautiful highland landscape. He was about to head to the luggage car for his trunk and to retrieve Hedwig, but overhead another student telling a first year that their luggage and familiars would be taken up to the castle. Straightening his robes and taking a deep breath, he wandered onto the platform, then spotted Hagrid towering above the maelstrom of bodies.

“First years over ‘ere!” he called. His dark eyes seemed to light up when he spotted Harry. “’Arry! Good ter see ya. ‘right, first years, follow me.” 

While the rest of the school appeared to be boarding horseless carriages, a little less than forty first years were led down to the lakeshore, where about a dozen small boats were waiting. Hagrid ushered them into the boats, no more than four to a boat, with Harry taking the one where he saw a familiar bushy-haired girl. She looked over at him, her brown eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Have I seen you before today?” she asked.

Harry nodded. “In Flourish and Blotts. You gave me the inspiration to buy _Hogwarts: A History.”_

“It’s a great reference, isn’t it?” the girl said excitedly, as the boats pushed off, “My parents are Muggles, so I need as much information as I could use. We couldn’t even figure out where to get all my school supplies until Professor McGonagall herself showed up at our doorstep and explained how to get into Diagon Alley. I suppose she must do that for all the Muggleborns. But it’s quite strange, entering this whole world I didn’t even know existed. And it’s just so fascinating! I’m dreadfully excited for classes to begin."

Then she frowned. " _You_ already know magic, though, don't you? I saw you use it before the train left. I thought it wasn't allowed?"  

Harry shrugged. “It's...not, but my aunt taught me a few spells before I came; she thought it would be useful. And I was raised out of the country, so I don't know much about wizarding Britain either.”

“Your aunt? What about your parents?” the girl asked, her disapproval at Harry's breaking the rules seemingly forgotten in her curiosity. Harry was grateful in that moment that he was talking to someone who wouldn’t have heard his story growing up. He was still bracing himself for the moment his name was called for the Sorting, and his shield of anonymity was broken. 

Harry spoke softly. “They died when I was one. Vol…You-Know-Who killed them.”

The girl looked mortified. “Oh, I’m dreadfully sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything!”

She peered curiously at him then, and her eyes lit up, and Harry knew he’d been found out. “You’re…you’re Harry Potter, aren’t you? I thought you might be! I’m Hermione Granger,” she said, sticking out a hand.

Harry took it and nodded. “How did you know?” he asked.

“Well, the dates fit, and so did your age. You also look like the picture I saw of your father in _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts.”_ She paused, looking curious. “Did your aunt really raise you out of the country?” 

“She’s not really my aunt,” Harry explained.  “Her name is Daphne Dressler, and she was my mum’s best friend, so she’s the closest thing I have left to family.”

Hermione’s eyes widened with excitement once more. “Daphne Dressler? Wasn’t she one of the Ministry’s top Aurors? I read about her too!” 

“Yeah, she was…” Harry said, trailing off as they caught sight of Hogwarts. It was majestic sight: soaring towers against the night sky. The lights from the windows danced across the inky water of the lake. The impressive view had the effect of silencing just about all conversation on the boats.

Hermione gasped beside him. “ _That’s_ Hogwarts?” she breathed. She looked back at him, an awed smile on her face. He smiled back.

 

 

The boats landed at an underground dock, and the students debarked, some very clearly happy to be once more on dry land. A pink-faced boy with sad eyes cried out in glee when he found his toad. “That’s Neville Longbottom,” Hermione said, looking in his direction. “I helped him look for Trevor on the train. He’s a dear, really.” 

Harry frowned. _Longbottom?_ He was certain he had heard that name before. But Hermione had turned away as Hagrid began to lead the new arrivals up a set of stone steps.

The first years proceeded up into an enormous antechamber, where Professor McGonagall was waiting for them. With a nod, Hagrid moved past them and disappeared through a pair of double doors. The Deputy Headmistress was dressed in dark green robes and wore a pointed witch’s hat. “You will wait here to be Sorted into your Houses. I suggest you use this time to smarten up a bit before the Sorting ceremony begins.”

Harry uselessly tried to get his hair to behave, but it was a losing battle, as bits stuck out no matter what he tried. “ _Can never get it flat_ ,” he grumbled. 

To his surprise, McGonagall laughed. He looked up at her, and she was smiling fondly. “Neither could your father.”

Hermione looked at him questioningly for a moment before she resumed trying to tame her own hair, with about as much success.

Professor McGonagall left and the first years began energetically discussing what the Sorting might entail. Ron Weasley was going on about fighting a troll, but Harry thought that unlikely, unless Dumbledore wanted to be writing to some rather upset parents. Hermione was nervous, repeating spells she’d learned under her breath. Her knowledge was impressive, especially for a Muggleborn.

Out of agitation more than anything else, Harry put a hand on her shoulder. “Hermione, relax. Think about it: Hogwarts doesn’t turn away students, and there are Muggleborns that know less magic than you. Do you really think they’ll make us do something requiring the _Alohamora_ Charm?”

Hermione looked up at him, surprise on her face. “Why didn’t I think of that?” 

Harry smiled awkwardly “Probably because you were too busy getting yourself wound up?”

Hermione made a non-committal noise in reply, but didn’t actually disagree. “I just…you have to understand; this is all new to me! There are so many things about this world I don’t understand, and I can’t help but worry that all the other students will be ahead of me.” She didn't say 'like you.' But it was fairly heavily implied.

Harry wasn’t sure what to say to that. She was right, of course, he had proven that on the platform. But still…

”You’re brilliant,” he settled on. “I’ve only met you twice and I can tell.”

Hermione’s cheeks went pink. “Thank you,” she mumbled. Then she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I can do this,” she muttered to herself.

He wondered if he had just made a friend, his first in his ‘new’ life.

Abruptly it struck him just how much he missed Trish and Connor, and hoped once more they weren’t mad for leaving. Trish had given him a big hug the last time they met, and Connor had bid him good luck. They all promised to write. He hoped they could keep that promise once the business of the new school term set in. Connor in particular had always been a bit hard to pin down for social occasions. 

There was a brief flurry of excitement as a number of ghosts drifted through the walls themselves, spooking some of the First Years and delighting others. Harry remembered a few of their names from his reading - the Bloody Baron and what he thought was the Grey Lady passed straight through the crowd without even slowing down, while ghosts he thought must be the Fat Friar and Nearly-Headless Nick enthusiastically greeted the new arrivals. Hermione's mouth was open as she watched what had to be a truly unbelievable spectacle unfold. Harry had seen a few ghosts in his life, but not nearly this many, and they had all been rather uninterested in conversation. 

The great wooden doors swung open, shooing away the last of the ghosts, and the First Years were led into the Great Hall. Hermione started telling a pair of darker-skinned girls, apparently twins, about the enchanted ceiling. Indeed, when Harry glanced up, he saw speckles of stars and the brilliant moon, with the ceiling rafters only faintly visible through the illusion. The effect was spectacular, much more so than his bedroom, although that particular thought merely made him even more homesick. Candles were floating around the room, and Harry noticed four long tables packed with students, one for each House, in addition to the High Table at the front of the hall where the teachers were arrayed in a line.

Harry saw Professor McGonagall place a patched and frayed leather hat atop an equally battered stool. He wondeed what significance that had for the Sorting.

At least he did until the hat begin to sing. 

When the song was finished, the students applauded wildly, and the hat gave something resembling a bow. Harry glanced up at the head table. He saw Dumbledore, who looked back at him, or maybe just the first years in general, eyes twinkling madly. He saw Hagrid (the man was hard to miss), Snape, a man in a purple turban, a plump witch with curly brown hair, and a tiny wizard with white hair who was actually standing on his stool. Harry wondered if this was the Professor Flitwick that Daphne said spoke so highly of his mother. There were a few others on the fringes, probably more junior members of the faculty. After a moment, Harry spied Professor Sinistra sitting quietly to Hagrid’s right. He tried unsuccessfully to catch her eye.

Professor McGonagall seemed to have the ability to quiet the room merely by making her presence known, and the rumble of voices gradually died down.

Gryffindor’s Head of House gracefully unfurled a scroll, and looked towards the assembled first years in their rough line. “When I call your name, please step forward and place the Sorting Hat on your head.”

“Abbot, Hannah.” A small girl with blonde pigtails left the line, nearly stumbling in her excitement, and ran to the stool, placing the hat over her head, which slipped down to cover most of her face.

“HUFFLEPUFF!” the hat cried, after some pause. She ran off to join the Hufflepuff table as they stood and applauded. The rest of the tables also clapped politely.

“Bones, Susan.”  The last name also sounded familiar. She looked confident and composed as the Hat also announced “HUFFLEPUFF!”

“Boot, Terry.” A dark-haired boy walked to the hat with some apprehension, but it was only moments until it cried, “RAVENCLAW!”

“Brocklehurst, Amanda.” A tall, dark-haired girl with vibrant blue eyes nervously approached the hat. “RAVENCLAW!” 

“Brown, Lavender.” A brown-haired girl who had been not-so-quietly gossiping earlier came forward and after a long minute, the hat cried: “GRYFFINDOR!” 

“Bulstrode, Millicent.” A heavier girl with a rather unpleasant expression strode confidently to the front of the hall. Shortly thereafter: “SLYTHERIN!” The applause from the other tables was noticeable muted.

“Cole, Leanne.” “HUFFLEPUFF!”

“Crabbe, Vincent.” One of the bodyguards he had seen on the train, the more boulder-shaped one, plodded up. “SLYTHERIN!”

“Crawford, Michael.” A blond-haired boy with Daphne’s grey-green eyes ran up. Harry made a mental note to ask if they were related. “RAVENCLAW!”

“Davis, Tracey.” A nervous looking brunette made her way forward. There was a long silence, followed by “SLYTHERIN!”

“Finch-Fletchley, Justin.” “HUFFLEPUFF!”

“Finnegan, Seamus.” Harry smiled as the familiar sandy-haired boy ran up and sat down so quickly on the stool that the Hat ended up somewhat askew. It took an age before he was declared a “GRYFFINDOR!”

“Cole, Leanne.” “HUFFLEPUFF!”

“Goldstein, Anthony.” A confident blonde first year walked leisurely to the Hat, sat down, and was immediately made a “HUFFLEPUFF!”

“Granger, Hermione.” Harry sat up in his seat as his new friend got up and ran to the stool, eagerly jamming the hat onto her head. He waited for a long moment before the Hat cried, “GRYFFINDOR!”

Harry was a bit disappointed as he watched her be greeted by her new housemates. He’d started to think he would probably be in Ravenclaw like Daphne, and Hermione had seemed the same sort. He hoped that it wouldn’t get in the way of what seemed to be a promising start to a friendship.

“Greengrass, Daphne," was a blond-haired girl with sharp blue eyes who walked briskly to the stool with remarkable elegance for an eleven-year old. The Hat wasted no time. “SLYTHERIN!” 

“Goyle, Gregory.” The blond boy’s other, taller, bodyguard plodded to the Hat with equal grace to Crabbe. “SLYTHERIN!”

“Hopkins, Wayne.” “HUFFLEPUFF!”

“Li, Su.” “RAVENCLAW!”

“Longbottom, Neville.” The brown-haired boy, looking extremely nervous, ran up to the stool, nearly tripping in his haste. Maybe a minute passed before the Hat declared: “GRYFFINDOR!” Harry was surprised by that, but remembered Daphne’s wise words about the Houses.

“MacDougal, Morag.” A tall auburn-haired boy with glasses and a graceful bearing. “RAVENCLAW!”             

“MacMillan, Ernest.” A pale-skinned boy with a mop of light brown hair and an arrogant air about him. “HUFFLEPUFF!”

“Malfoy, Draco.” Harry straightened abruptly as he saw the blonde from the train strut up to the hat.

Malfoy. Daphne had not been entirely forthcoming on the War and its participants, but he knew the name Malfoy. It was an old name, and a bloody one. He _knew_ he had not liked the look of that boy. “SLYTHERIN!”

The boy looked very pleased with that, smirking as he joined the table to some applause. Evidently his new housemates knew who he was too. 

“Moon, Elisha.” A black girl with strangely golden eyes took her place, and quickly became a “SLYTHERIN!”

“Nott, Theodore.” A boy with wire-frame glasses, short brown hair, and constantly shifting brown eyes walked slowly up to the hat. It had barely touched his head when it bellowed, “SLYTHERIN!”

“Parkinson, Pansy.” A blond girl with an aristocratic bearing but a nervous expression came forward. “SLYTHERIN!” 

“Patil, Padma.” One of the girls Hermione had been talking to. “RAVENCLAW!”

“Patil, Parvati.” Her identical sister. “GRYFFINDOR!" 

“Perks, Sally-Anne.” “HUFFLEPUFF!”

“Potter, Harry.” 

Between waiting with bated breath and losing himself in the energy of the Sorting, Harry was only half aware his name had been called. Someone beside him nudged him with an elbow as whispers broke out all over the hall.  He took a deep breath and made his way towards the front of the Hall, trying not to focus on the cacophony of speculation that now surrounded him, but he picked some up all the same.

“The _Harry Potter you think_?”

“ _I can’t believe he beat You-Know-Who!”_

_“He’s a Gryffindor for sure! We’re going to get Potter!”_

_“He’s a little short, isn’t he?”_

A cautious glance at the High Table revealed that even most of the professors were watching him with keen interest, even anxiety. It was deeply unnerving.

_If this is the price of fame, I’m not at all sure it is worth it._

He focused and managed not to tremble as he took his seat and drew the Sorting Hat over his head. 

 _My my, this is exciting_ , whispered an unfamiliar voice. _Here you are at last._

 _Here I am_ , Harry thought dully.

 _Oh don’t be like that,_ the hat chastised him. _If I’m any judge, and I flatter myself to say I am, you have great things ahead of you, Mr. Potter. But where to put you so that you might best achieve them? I see a bit of everything here – passion and conviction worthy of a Gryffindor, the loyalty of a Hufflepuff, the cleverness and curiosity of a Ravenclaw._

 _And Slytherin?_ Harry asked quietly.

 _I was getting there_ , the hat replied, sounding a bit put out. _You want to prove yourself, don’t you? You want to be more than the Boy-Who-Lived. You want to be known in your own right. Cunning isn’t beyond you by any means. You have a few unique…talents. You could be great in Slytherin. Forging a new and unexpected path for your family and name. Do you like the sound of that?_

 _I’m not sure_ , Harry thought back, keeping Daphne’s words in mind. _I don’t really know what I want._

_Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure, Mr Potter. I sense a thirst in you. A thirst best slaked in **SLYTHERIN**!_

As the hat went silent, so too did the Great Hall. For a moment, anyway. Then the whispers started again, much more intense this time. And they grew louder and louder as Harry drew the hat off his head, handing it to a rattled Professor McGonagall, who took it limply. 

He forced himself not to pay attention to the voices swirling around him, some filled with shock, other with anger. He couldn’t help glancing over at the Gryffindor table, where the most common reaction was stunned disbelief, followed by a growing suspicion. Hermione looked at him briefly, her eyes wide. _She must have heard nasty things about Slytherin_ , he guessed. And after all, hadn’t he just been associating Slytherins with the likes of Malfoy?

Even so, as she looked down, he couldn’t help feeling like he had just lost something he barely had in the first place. 

The reactions of the Slytherin table was a study in contrasts. For every look of outrage and anger, there was one of naked curiosity, even excitement at this unexpected turn of events. More than a few looks were rather condescending – none more than that from Draco Malfoy, who scowled at him rather petulantly. 

Slowly, he sat down next to one of the newly sorted Slytherins – Bulstrode, he thought. Her expression was guarded. 

The sorting resumed as McGonagall coughed awkwardly. Just before "Thomas, Dean" joined the new Gryffindors, Harry glanced up towards the High Table. He was not reassured by what he saw. A few of the younger professors whispered animatedly back and forth. There were looks of outright shock on the face of a plump woman in Hufflepuff colours, probably Professor Sprout, and the one he thought must be Flitwick, and just for an instant, a deep concern in the eyes of the Headmaster. Professor Snape, on the other hand, appeared to have eaten something that disagreed with him, and obviously blamed Harry, as his eyes bored down with an unpleasant intensity that made Harry want to run very fast in the opposite direction. 

He felt a sudden sharp pain in his forehead, right at his scar, but when he looked up, it had gone entirely.

Lisa Turpin, wide-eyed and bespectacled, joined Ravenclaw. 

The contents of Hagrid’s spilled goblet were steadily dripping onto the floor. Its owner looked like he had been punched in the gut. That hurt more than Harry had expected.

 _It’s just a House_ , he told himself. But he knew it was a lie. Where Harry Potter was involved, nothing was ‘just’ anything. 

Ron Weasley threw a glare at Harry on his way to the hat, and then met his eyes again after triumphantly being Sorted into Gryffindor. _What did I do to him?_ Harry wondered. Maybe he had been excited about being in the same house as Harry Potter, and he felt let down?

By the time he finally sat down, a dark-skinned boy named Blaise Zabini had become Harry’s newest housemate. Blaise stared at him with unabashed curiosity as he took his seat opposite.

Harry did his best to keep his expression blank as a myriad of thoughts ran through his head. He hadn’t really _expected_ this, but at the same time, he could hardly say he was upset. He certainly knew Slytherin’s reputation, but he also knew that Daphne’s late husband had been a Serpent. She would be proud of him regardless, and he took solace from that. But the reactions of everyone else, students and teachers alike, gave him some pause.

With the Sorting concluded, Dumbledore stood up. “A few start of term notices. First, this year more than ever, the Forbidden Forest is off-limits to _all_ students. In addition, the third-floor corridor is out of bounds, to anyone who does not wish to die a most painful death.” This was met by a hiss of whispers and several groans. Harry wondered what on earth was in the corridor and, more importantly, what it was doing in a school. Daphne had spoken unflatteringly of Dumbledore’s judgment in the past.  “Argus Filch, our caretaker, has posted a list of all forbidden items on his office door. I believe the list is 414 items long at last glance.”

“And now, I would like to say a few words." He cleared his throat before crying "Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you. Dig in.”

Massive quantities of food appeared on the golden plates in front of them as Harry stared back at the Headmaster in disbelief. Muttering under his breath about barmy old men, Harry loaded his plate with liberal amounts of everything he could reach and began to eat. 

“Well, this is a surprise.” It was Bulstrode, heavily-built and square-jawed, looking down at him with suspicious eyes. It seemed like she had moved a few inches further away since he had first sat down.

Harry tried to remember anything about her family – they were on the Darker side of things if he was not mistaken, but that didn’t necessarily tell him anything. Daphne told him that there was a line between being Dark and being evil, thin as it was. Some wizards and families generally considered Dark had opposed Voldemort with every bit of the ferocity of their Light comrades. Though it had to also be said that many more had joined him, or at least not attempted to resist.  

Harry looked at her for a moment, trying to come up with a response. “I didn’t expect this either,” he said finally.

“Going to make the best of it, I hope?” Blaise asked, with some excitement. “Talk about having a target on your back from day one.”

“Sure you belong here, Potter?” Bulstrode asked. 

Harry considered his answer. “I’m not really sure of anything right now. It’s a lot to take in.” 

“I can imagine,” said Zabini.

And…that was that. There was small talk, and gossip about pureblood circles, and speculation about the other new first years _(“Reckon there are any Gryffindors with brains this year?” “That Muggleborn Granger seems pretty bright for one of them.” “How about those Patil twins ending up in different houses?” “Do you know their family?” “It’s an old line, from India, pretty recently arrived here.”)_ but any explicit discussion of Harry’s life ended at soon as it began. 

Harry was digging into his dessert when he felt a tap on his shoulder. When he glanced up, he was met with the thoroughly unwelcome rodent-like face of Draco Malfoy, flanked on either side by brawny Crabbe and Goyle. 

Harry composed himself. It would hardly do to make enemies right away. “Malfoy. What do you want?”

The blond-haired pureblood looked taken aback for a moment, but quickly recovered. “Have we met before?” 

“I don't believe we have, no,” Harry said slowly.

The boy in front of him ploughed on, seemingly oblivious of Harry’s growing unease. “Well, I wanted to introduce myself properly. You know my name,” - and something about the way he said _name_ suggested that he was sure it was worth something – “and this is Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle. You’ve been living out of the country, I understand, so you probably don’t know what's what. There are certain types of wizards that are better than others. You don’t want to get involved with the wrong sort. I can help you there,” he said, extending his hand.

Harry looked down at it. “I don’t think so,” he replied softly. “Not from you.”

Draco’s eyes flashed in surprise and anger as he pulled his hand back. “What are you on about?"        

Harry considered his words carefully. “Your family’s reputation proceeds you. Particularly your father’s. _That_ what I’m on about.”

Left unsaid was _you’re the son of a Death Eater who bribed his way out of Azkaban._

Malfoy’s face reddened. “What exactly are you implying?” he hissed.

Harry met his gaze, trying to keep his voice steady. “I think you know exactly what I am talking about. I’m the Boy-Who-Lived, if you recall. Our families…didn’t get along.”

“How dare you?” Draco demanded. Crabbe and Goyle moved a step closer, and Harry’s hand quickly closed on his wand. This was _not_ going well.

“Are you really going to pretend to be so offended?” a lazy voice interrupted. It was Theodore Nott. That was another name Harry had heard in less than flattering terms. “We’re all Slytherins here, Malfoy. Maybe your father would like us all to forget his…indiscretions, but we don’t always get what we want, do we?”

This boy wore the Slytherin robes as if he’d been born to them. He peered over his glasses in a manner that belied his eleven years. Such maturity seemed characteristic of pureblood heirs, Malfoy aside. It was more than a little intimidating, but he supposed they had been raised from birth to lead their houses when they reached adulthood.

Harry had expected Malfoy to turn on Nott next, but the blonde boy seemed to bite his tongue. _Interesting_.

He turned back to Harry, a look that was shooting for menacing but in fact conveyed little except petulance. “You’ll regret this, Potter. You won’t last two weeks in Slytherin.” 

Harry stayed silent. This seemed to irritate Draco even further, but gave him nothing to say in return. The other boy turned away in disgust, though Harry caught something disparaging about his mother’s birth muttered under his breath. Harry took a deep breath and fought down the urge to send a hex into Malfoy’s backside.

When Draco had gone, Nott spoke again. “You didn’t handle that too badly, Potter.”

“Thanks,” Harry forced out. Something about Nott was _off_. He was sat next to another first year, her blonde hair bound in a braid that reached to the small of her back, and cool eyes the colour of ice. _Greengrass, if I remember right._ She met Harry’s eyes for a moment, but said nothing.

 _Cryptic_ _seems to be an under-reported Slytherin House trait_ , he mused.

He chanced another glance at the High Table. Things seemed to have moved on from the surprise of his Sorting, though if he wasn’t mistaken, Hagrid was considerably more dour than usual. _That could be a problem._

Next, he looked past Blaise towards the Gryffindor table. Hermione sat beside Neville Longbottom, listening patiently to something he was taking a long time to say, her expression rapidly turning sympathetic, then outraged. Harry wondered what they were saying. He tried and failed to catch Hermione’s eye again.

“Got your eye on one of the Gryffs, Potter? Careful now,” Zabini said teasingly, not even bothering to turn around.

Harry glared at him. It seemed to amuse the other boy even more. His housemate didn't say anything further, and resumed chatting with Bulstrode and Nott. They all seemed to have met before, which he supposed made sense.

Dinner wrapped up with only a smattering of conversation. A lot of the older students at the Slytherin table snuck glances at him, some of them clearly intended to be noticed. 

A disastrous attempt at ‘singing’ the school song later, they were dismissed to their dormitories. Harry followed the Slytherin prefects out of the Great Hall and into the dungeons. Harry’s unpleasant day did not end there though. Snape passed by, looking absolutely murderous. Harry supposed he had probably get used to that reaction.

They reached the hidden entrance to the Slytherin common room, a section of dungeon wall with an s-shaped serpent lightly carved into the stone, lit by two torches. Harry blinked at the password: _Toujours Pur._ It was a bit on the nose.

“Got a problem with the password, Potter?”

Malfoy again.

Harry didn’t dignify him with a response as the prefects explained the basic rules of the Common Room, filled them in on meal times, and offered a few words of advice. A stocky boy with a prefect’s badge told the assembled first years that Slytherin was like a family, but every family had its secrets and difficulties. They didn’t have to like each other, but they were to have each other’s backs when it came to dealing with the other houses. Amongst themselves…well, that was a different story, he finished with a predatory grin. 

Malfoy tried to catch his attention _again_ as they made their way into the dormitories themselves. A luxurious four-poster bed in Slytherin colours awaited each of them, their trunks safely set at the foot of the bed. 

Harry turned around, his patience nearing an end. “Malfoy, I’ll put this in the simplest terms, so you understand. I don’t like you. Sod off.” 

Before the other boy could muster a reply, Harry had climbed into his own bed and firmly shut the curtains. Malfoy’s indignant response was mercifully muffled past the point of coherence, so Harry lay on his back and stared at the canopy.

Things had _not_   gone entirely to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've added in a few extra students here and there based on Rowling's original notes. Harry's year always seemed small, though I suppose the middle of a war is not when many people would be starting families. There are still a bit of an imbalance of Slytherins but, well, we heard a lot more about the Gryffindors in Harry's year than, say, the Ravenclaws. 
> 
> My first go at this fic I pretty much spent torturing poor Harry with an unreasonable level of abuse from the people around him (which was not insignificantly a reflection of my own experience in high school, sadly). I've tried to tone that down substantially. I would appreciate knowing if you thought it was approaching reasonable as I progress with the re-write.


	5. First Impressions

Harry awoke to the darkness of his enclosed four-poster bed. He rubbed his eyes, reaching for the glasses on his bedside table. He’d had a strange dream, ending in the green light of the _Avada Kedavra_ curse that had given him his scar. A dream involving Snape, Hermione…and a whole bunch of other things he didn’t recognize – the Sorting Hat had been there, and then an odd tree, bare of leaves, but shining with a curious inner light. It reminded him vaguely of the description of the Silmarils of Tolkien’s work, though he couldn’t imagine how they figured in.

Slipping out of bed, he checked the clock beside him, and saw that it was only half past six. The rest of the dormitory was still asleep, including the dull thunder of Crabbe’s snores…or it might have been Goyle. Looking around, Harry was starting to wonder just how difficult living with this group was going to be. He and Malfoy were already enemies, and with him the two burly bodyguards. Zabini seemed unthreatening enough and Nott was...intriguing, but there was also something about him that Harry did not like much. He wasn’t sure what it was. 

_Whatever. I’m a Slytherin. And I’m staying a Slytherin._

Harry pulled on a dressing gown and made his way to the toilet, quickly bathing and pulling on his school robes. He grabbed his book bag, stuffing _Hogwarts: A History_ in with his schoolbooks, and then pulled some parchment and a pen out of his trunk, and began to write a letter to Daphne.

He paused as he considered exactly how honest he wanted to be. Harry was not in the habit of lying to Daphne, but the Sorting Hat had been right about one thing – he did have a fierce desire to prove himself. He could only do that here, on his own. Daphne would do anything for him, and that was exactly the problem.

_Daph,_

_I got to Hogwarts safely, but things didn’t really go the way I expected them to. I got sorted into Slytherin House. Some of my classmates seem decent enough, but there are a few I don’t much like the look of. There’s a Malfoy here, and he and I don’t get along, as you’d expect. Everyone seemed a bit surprised by my Sorting, but hopefully it is something they get used to. I know Edmund was proud of being a Slytherin, and I’m trying to keep that in mind._

_It seems like Professor Snape really hates me, even though I haven’t done anything. Do you know what that’s about?_

_All my love,_

_Harry_

Looking over the letter, Harry added a few things here and there and then rolled it up.

He gathered his things and set off for the Owlery. He exited the Common Room, checking the clock to see it was just past 7 in the morning. Harry wasn’t sure, but he thought it wasn’t too early to leave his dormitory. Pulling on a cloak, he set off through the freezing dungeons, and took the staircase into the Entrance Hall. As he wandered through the abandoned halls of the castle on his way to the Owlery, he encountered no one, with the exception of a few sleepy portraits. Eventually he arrived and found Hedwig, who gave him on affectionate nip before he flung her out the window. He watched her soar into the dawning sky and then turned around to see Hermione Granger stood at the base of the steps, holding a letter in her hand, her eyes widened in anxiety. He took a cautious step toward her, but she turned and ran out of view.

Harry slumped against the wall, thoughts spinning through his mind. _Why won’t anyone give me a chance? Do I have a sign on my forehead that says: “I am a Dark Wizard and all Muggleborns must die?"_

Harry was starting to wonder what the Sorting Hat had been thinking when it sorted him into Slytherin. How was he supposed to be great if everyone cowered at the sight of him? Or hated his very existence, like Snape? 

Harry wandered back down from Owlery and went back down to the Great Hall for breakfast. The Hall was mostly empty, with only a few older students hurriedly finishing their summer homework. The Slytherin table was more or less deserted, so Harry took a seat approximately where he guessed the rest of the first years would sit. Harry pulled out _Hogwarts: A History_ , and began to read, paying particular attention to the section on navigating the castle. As the minutes passed by, more and more students began to drift into the Great Hall, and the noise level steadily rose. Conversations drifted on the air - gossip about new housemates, speculation about the House Cup, excitement about the upcoming Quidditch season, complaints about final exam marks from the previous year. 

Somewhat to his surprise, it was Theodore Nott who decided to sit next to Harry, followed by Millicent Bulstrode opposite him. Harry glanced up at them, and then noticed the Great Hall was almost full, and most of the students were eagerly awaiting the appearance of breakfast. Harry put away his book, and glanced over at the Gryffindor table. He saw Hermione Granger chatting happily with Percy Weasley. 

Harry found himself staring at her for a moment, wondering about what might have been. Unfortunately, she noticed him, and then looked down hastily. He watched as Ron, Fred, and George Weasley followed Hermione’s gaze, and before Harry could look away, he saw what seemed like half the Gryffindor table glaring at him. He felt his cheeks burn with humiliation and looked down, frustrated. Nott and Bulstrode were now discussing some obscure pureblood ritual, something about the winter solstice. Harry couldn’t ever recall feeling more alone in his entire life. He missed Daphne desperately.

Harry ate silently before glancing at the schedule that Professor McGonagall had placed next to him. He noted he had her class, Transfiguration, with the Gryffindors first thing; a double period.

Harry let out a long sigh. This was not a great way to start his day. He got up, pulling his book bag onto his shoulder, and followed Malfoy and his gang, who were now treating Harry as if he didn’t exist, out of the Great Hall. As Harry rounded a corner, he suddenly found himself grabbed by the sleeve and pulled around a corner, where two unhappy looking red-haired twins glared at him.

Harry swallowed, hard. 

“So, Potter? Thought it’d be funny to harass the Muggleborn?” the one on the right asked angrily. “One of your new buddies put you up to it?”

“No,” he said quickly. “She…I met her before, and she seemed nice.”

“Yeah, well, you know what? We’re known as the top troublemakers in the school for a reason,” the one on the left added. 

"We're not so  _nice_."

“So you had better watch yourself or -“

“ _Fred!_ _George!_ Leave him alone!” 

Harry and the twins turned to see Hermione standing in the corridor, looking mortified. Harry tried to send her a grateful smile, but she didn’t return it.

“Why, Hermione?” the twin on the left asked. “This Slytherin git was trying to scare you this morning, we all saw it.”

He _did_ seem a little less certain of himself than before, Harry noticed.

“No…he wasn’t…we were kind of…friends on the boat, before the Sorting,” she whispered nervously. “He…didn’t seem that bad.” 

“Hermione,” Harry said slowly. “My mum was Muggleborn, why would I have anything against them?”

“Because you’re a Slytherin!” she burst out, and quickly ducked around the corner. The twins looked at each other in confusion. Harry picked up his bag and continued to his class, wondering what the hell had just happened.

 

 

Harry reached McGonagall’s class just on time, and hurriedly took a seat by himself. Hermione was deliberately avoiding his gaze, and her eyes were red, as if she had been crying. He couldn’t understand what had happened to make this go so wrong.

Ron Weasley and Neville Longbottom hurried in several minutes late. Harry's attention was drawn to the presence of a small tabby cat, with rings around her eyes that looked suspiciously like McGonagall’s spectacles. As the implications of that began to register, the cat leapt off the desk, and by the time it had landed, turned into an annoyed looking Professor McGonagall, who was apparently an animagus. Daphne hadn’t mentioned that.

Ron and Neville froze as she glared at them.

“Do you have a reason for being late, Misters Weasley and Longbottom?” she asked.

“Uh…” Ron said, trying to think of an excuse, “Peeves?”

“I don’t think so, Mr. Weasley. Five points from Gryffindor for tardiness.” There were several snickers from the Slytherins, and Ron glared at him, even though Harry hadn’t even laughed. 

McGonagall strode to the front of the class, and by her very presence silenced the frenzied whispering between two of the Gryffindor girls. “Welcome to Transfiguration. This is a difficult and dangerous branch of magic, and horseplay will not be tolerated. If you are unable to take this seriously, you will leave and not return.”

She then proceeded to turn her desk into a pig, to wild applause. She restored it, then turned to the board, where a number of categories were written down in neat script. “There are three primary branches of Transfiguration. There is Object Transfiguration, which will be the focus of your first few years in this class. That is, the magical conversion of one inanimate object to another type of inanimate object, which includes changes in dimension, material composition, and other physical characteristics. There is also Animated Transfiguration, which covers imparting inanimate objects with life-like qualities. Within Animated Transfiguration there is Cross-Species Transfiguration, which is as it sounds: the magical conversion of one type of living organism to another. Finally, and most difficult of all, there is Human Transfiguration. We will not be covering that subject unless you score well on your fifth year O.W.L.s and join my N.E.W.T. Transfiguration course.” 

To a student, the class was a bit dazed by the end of her introductory lecture. Professor McGonagall either did not notice or was not terribly concerned. The noise of quills hurriedly scratching across parchment filled the classroom.

“Very well, now that we have covered the basics, we’ll move on to some application. Please open _A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration_ to page 12, and read the passage on cross-material Transfiguration.” She paused for a moment, gesturing at one of the Gryffindors sitting near the front of the classroom. “Miss Patil, please come up here and hand out these matchsticks.” 

Harry accepted his graciously, though Parvati didn’t look at him as she passed by.

“When you have finished reading, please attempt to change them into needles. Fear not if you are unable to produce results, I have been teaching for some time, and I have seen only a handful of students who have been successful from the start. With practice and hard work, you will all improve.” 

After Harry read the passage, noting down a few of the more important sections, he took out his wand and placed the matchstick in the centre of his desk. Closing his eyes, he envisioned the matchstick as a needle and jabbed quickly. Harry opened his eyes to find that the wood now had a metallic glint. He glanced around and saw  consternation, as it seemed that Hermione alone had done anything at all. He tried again, and found that the stick looked even more metallic and was considerably pointier, if still decidedly wooden. Another glance at Hermione, who still appeared to be the only other one who was accomplishing anything, showed she hadn’t made any progress from there, and she was now furiously re-reading the passage. Harry concentrated, experimenting by imagining the wood of the match changing to metal, neglecting the other physical differences in the interest of achieving that much. He tried three more times in quick succession, and just as he opened his eyes he heard a squeal and saw Hermione bouncing in her chair.

“Professor McGonagall! Professor McGonagall, I did it!” she said happily. The Gryffindor Head of House came over and picked up the needle, smiling proudly. “Excellent, Ms. Granger. 10 points to Gryffindor.” Harry looked down to see his was roughly identical.

“I’ve got it too, Professor,” Harry called. McGonagall stiffened visibly and walked over to check his work. She picked it up and spent considerably more time examining it. “Very good, Mr. Potter. Your father, James, was one of the few students who succeeded at this task immediately. 10 points to Gr-Slytherin.”

She had recovered quickly, but Harry caught the brief stumble.

Half the heads in the class spun. The Slytherins barely hid triumphant smirks, though Malfoy was glaring at him, predictably. The Gryffindors didn’t look any happier at him apparently upstaging Hermione.  Exasperated, Harry groaned. 

“Think you’re better than her, Potter? Had to show up the Muggleborn, did you?” Ron whispered nastily. Harry’s self-control buckled and he threw the irritating ginger boy a withering glare, one that had the Gryffindor jerking back in alarm. His attention was shortly drawn elsewhere, though, as McGonagall pronounced Malfoy’s needle as ‘not nearly good enough', prompting guffaws from the Gryffindors that were silenced by a look from their Head of House.

“Quiet,” she hissed. “Mr. Malfoy has still made much more progress than you, Mr. Weasley,” she added pointedly. Many minutes later, the deep sound of a bell somewhere in the castle signaled the end of lessons. “Homework tonight is to practice until you have achieved a decent needle. I _can_ and _will_ check to see if you transfigured your own matchstick. Anyone who cheats will receive a zero and a detention.”

With that warning, they headed off to lunch, and Harry ate silently, not even bothering to glance over at the Gryffindor table this time. When he finished, though, he saw Ron Weasley get up and leave, alone. 

Harry hurried out of the Great Hall. Then, he waited patiently for the other boy to come along. Standing in the shadows, he said quietly. “What is your _problem_ , Weasley?” 

Ron spun around, shocked to see Harry standing behind him. Harry’s hands hung empty at his sides; he didn’t want to scare Weasley off. 

“What do you mean?” Weasley asked dumbly, looking around for potential help. The entrance hall was empty apart from a few older Hufflepuffs.

“I mean, why do you desperately scratch and claw to come up with _anything,_ real or imagined, that will allow you to justify treating me like troll dung,” Harry said, his voice level. Weasley gulped loudly. 

“I don’t…Why’d you wait to… _accost_ me anyway? Scared of fighting us on your own? Let me go, or my brothers-”

“I’m haven’t kidnapped you or anything. And your brothers have already _spoken_ to me. Guess who stopped them?”

“Malfoy and his gang, no doubt. I can’t believe _you_ getting chummy with the son of a Death Eater. He was, you know.” Ron looked smug in this knowledge, as if expecting a surprised reaction from Harry.

“I _know_ that.” He sighed. “You aren’t very observant, Weasley. Malfoy and I do not get along.”

Ron looked stunned. “What?”

“Besides all that, Hermione is the one who got them to leave me alone,” Harry explained. His mood turned dark. “Forgive me for sparing a glance at the closest thing I have to a friend. It’s really pathetic how all Gryffindors associate Slytherins with junior Death Eaters.” 

“It’s because they are!” Ron protested. “Everyone knows that the Slytherins were with You-Know-Who!”

Harry laughed incredulously. “Sure. And all Gryffindors are Light wizards, right?”

Ron shifted a bit, probably realizing that Harry might well know something he didn’t. “Yeah, most of them.”

“What would you say if I told you that a Dark Lord was a Gryffindor?”

“I’d say you were barmy! You-Know-Who was a Slytherin, everybody knows that.”

Harry saw his opening. “And Grindelwald was a Gryffindor. A roommate of Professor Dumbledore. Look what happened to him? Mordred Yaxley, a Death Eater, was a Gryffindor. He’s lying six feet under, killed by my aunt Daphne, who _married_ a Slytherin. I can come up with more if you’d like.”

Ron looked around nervously, clearly having not anticipated this turn in the conversation. “Who’s this aunt you keep mentioning? Who’s this Daphne?” 

“Daphne Dressler, that’s who.”

Ron gaped like a fish. “ _The_ Daphne Dressler? The Auror?”

Harry shrugged. “She’s not really my aunt. She was my mum’s best friend in school, and _she_ hung out with Slytherins. She _married_ one!” 

“Wow…” Ron said dumbly. 

“Think, Weasley. Think on it, and then decide whether or not I’m worth the effort. I won’t go near Hermione if she doesn’t want me to, but I _want_ her to be my friend. Tell her that if you want, or don’t, but we really need to get going. I’ve got Charms.”

“History of Magic, uh…later, Potter.” Harry nodded, and they went their separate ways, hoping against hope that maybe this conversation had made a difference.

 

 

Harry arrived at Charms class five minutes late, and lost two points for Slytherin. Harry accepted it, glad it wasn’t more, and sat down near Terry Boot, who looked at him curiously, but said nothing. After the reading off the attendance, Flitwick launched into an explanation of Charms theory, excitedly bouncing from one foot to another atop a mountain of stacked books.

“Charms is a curious branch of magic. While adult wizards and witches reap the benefits of hundreds of years of study by performing house-cleaning and maintenance charms without second thought, and most of us handle and even come to rely upon Charmed objects without even realizing it, as a field of magic, it is one of the broadest and least understood. In future classes, we will explore in greater depth the Theory of Charms, put forth by the seventeenth century wizard Balfour Bane.”

Professor Flitwick pointed his wand to the board, where a series of bullet points appeared. “But for now, I will give you a brief and by no means complete definition of a ‘charm.’ A charm is, essentially, a bit of magic that temporarily or permanently imparts an object or being with behaviours or characteristics foreign or unusual to its nature. As the Slytherin first years have just had Transfiguration, I think it appropriate to distinguish between Professor McGonagall’s subject and my own. Transfiguration, as it is now understood, is about changing the _nature_ of something, such that it maintains the characteristics imparted to it without further use of magic. It is, in some ways, a more permanent change. The changes brought about by Charms, on the other hand, are sustained by the magic of the charm itself, rather than any innate change within the object in question. I do hope that clear a few things up.”

They took many notes, and Flitwick assigned them an essay on the Tap-Dancing Charm, _tarantallegra_.  When he dismissed the class, Harry walked up to the front of the classroom instead of immediately going to lunch. Professor Flitwick had seemed merely disappointed instead of appalled at his Sorting, and it had reminded him that of something that Daphne had said.

The small wizard was pulling some files out of his desk when he looked up and saw Harry approach. “Yes, Mr. Potter. If this is about your tardiness I’m afraid I can’t help you.” His smile was gentle, not at all judging.

“It isn’t, sir. I just wanted to ask: Did you teach my mother?” 

The little man’s eyes widened and he nodded repeatedly. “Ah, yes. Lily Evans, I can’t recall having a finer student. She was truly a great in Charms, one of the best of her generation. She got one of the highest scores in history on the Charms O.W.L. and received special recognition on her N.E.W.T. Charms exam. You will be extremely lucky to have inherited any of her talent. She was also quite good at Potions. I was so sorry to hear of what became of her, my boy.” 

Harry nodded thanks for the condolences. “Just curious, I guess. My aunt referred to her talent in the area a few time, and mentioned you specifically.”

“Your aunt? You live with Lily’s sister?” the small wizard asked.

“No, I live with my mum’s best friend, Daphne Dressler. My real aunt hates magic.”

Fltiwick’s eyes widened more, and he tugged slightly at his beard. “You live with Daphne? Really…how is she doing, it’s been quite a while since I spoke with her.”

“Fine, sir. We live in Newfoundland. She raised me since…”

“I understand, Mr. Potter. Now then, why don’t we continue this conversation at a later date? You need to be off to your next class.” Harry nodded politely and left, trying not to wonder if Flitwick had asked him to leave because he didn’t want to talk with the Slytherin Potter. Or maybe it had been something about Daphne, and nothing to do with him at all? 

Harry proceeded to a class he was looking forward to, History of Magic, with the Hufflepuffs.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t nearly what he’d hoped. First, the teacher, Professor Binns, was a ghost. Second, Professor Binns was almost certainly the most boring individual that Harry had ever encountered, dead or not. He spoke in a monotone drone that lulled the listener into a stupor. Harry vaguely registered that he was talking about Goblin rebellions, a subject that did interest him, especially after his unexpected encounter with Griphook at Gringotts.  But he was soon overcome by the same lethargy that had claimed nearly all of his classmates, Serpents and Badgers alike, except for a few determinedly fighting though it.

Unable to focus on Binns, Harry looked around the room. Malfoy was lazily leaning back in his chair, rather obviously not listening to a word the Professor said. Daphne Greengrass stifled a yawn. Theodore Nott appeared to be in an entirely different world, one that was apparently more interesting than this one – not that it was extremely difficult to imagine one. Crabbe and Goyle looked as dumbfounded as ever. Parkinson was asleep, Bulstrode looking as though she would shortly follow. Tracey Davis was picking at her nails. Moon was the only one that looked in the least bit interested, and was scribbling down a few things here and there. Zabini appeared to be caught between dozing and doodling.

The Hufflepuffs were no better. MacMillan was clearly napping. Finch-Fletchley was too, but he was doing a little better job of hiding it. Susan Bones looked bored out of her mind. Hannah Abbot gave him an exasperated look as he met her eyes, one he was strangely grateful for – for once the negative feelings of his classmates weren’t directed at him. He turned back to Binns, struggling to bring his sluggish mind into working order, and jotted down about a page of disconnected and mostly incomprehensible notes. But it was something, and would at least help him write the essay they had just been assigned.   

When the great bell in one of the towers tolled, mercifully ending the lesson’s torment, a number of students shook themselves awake, looking embarrassed, earning some snickers from their other classmates.

Harry packed up his unused books and rolled up his parchment, hoping desperately that Binns might grow on him, as unlikely as that seemed. As he walked out the door, he found a large lump of wizard in his way, and looked up to see Crabbe and Goyle, doing what they did best: looking menacing.

“Potter, your notes,” Malfoy said casually. 

Harry stared at him, wondering if he’d heard correctly. “What about them?”

“Are you an idiot? Give them to me!” Malfoy said, apparently annoyed that this was taking so long.

“And why would I do that?” Harry asked, his fingers tightening around his wand.

“Because I told you so!” Malfoy said as if it was the simplest thing in the world. He extended his hand expectantly. 

Harry rolled his eyes. “Who died and put you in charge?”

“ _Potter,_ you need to learn who calls the shots around here _._ Hand it over _, Scarhead.”_ Malfoy hissed.

Harry drew his wand out and held before him, meeting Draco’s grey gaze. Crabbe and Goyle started and cracked their knuckles menacingly.

Harry had little time for this. His feelings of loneliness had led to an irritability exceeding the normal, and Malfoy was rapidly becoming an unbearable presence. “I don’t want to give you them. And I’m not all that frightened of you. Because if I wanted to, I could stun the lot of you and levitate all three of you into the Great Hall with your trousers down!” 

He wasn’t entirely sure he _could_ do that, but it sounded intimidating enough. 

Malfoy looked murderous, his pale face going scarlet. “You asked for it!” Crabbe and Goyle came forward while Malfoy plunged his hand into his robes for his wand.

Harry easily dodged Crabbe’s first blow and spun out of the corner, wand extended, dropping into the fighting stance he’d seen Daphne use when she was practicing, wand held up to make it harder for him to be disarmed.

“And _you_ asked for a fight, Malfoy! _Expelliarmus!”_ Harry cast, aiming at Goyle. The spell caught the tall boy in the gut, and sent him flying backwards, wand flying out of his pocket and landing at Harry’s feet.

“ _Stupefy!”_ Harry cried, aiming this time at Malfoy. The spell wasn’t very powerful and he didn’t get the wand movement down, but the force behind it still knocked Malfoy back, stopping him from incanting a spell that sounded like the Cutting Charm. Malfoy fell back, and Crabbe suddenly found himself unarmed, his two comrades on the ground, and Harry standing there with his eyes blazing. 

“ _POTTER!”_  

_Bollocks._

Severus Snape came flying up the corridor, his robes billowing behind him. He grabbed Harry by the collar and, ignoring Harry’s protestations of innocence, proceeded to drag him all the way to his office in the dungeons. He slammed the door closed behind him. His eyes were blazing as he turned around.

“I _told_   your bloody guardian that teaching you advanced spells was a mistake and it looks like I was right. You are as arrogant as _he_ ever was, if not worse! I’m sure my dear godson isn’t much better, but that doesn’t give you a right to attack them, Potter,” Snape snarled.

“Sir, Draco told Crabbe and Goyle to attack me first. I was defending myself.”

“As if I would believe that, Potter,” he spat. “At the rate your head is growing Madam Pomfrey will have to deflate it to stop you drifting away.”

“Sir-” Harry tried again. Snape’s eyes narrowed. 

“ _Silence!_ I do not have time to put up with your _grovelling._ Ten points from Slytherin for fighting in the corridors and wasting my time! Now get out of my sight!” he snapped.

Harry didn’t need to be told twice as he hurried out the door. He wandered further into the dungeons, wanting nothing more at that moment than to be alone, because it was becoming evident that he had no friends anywhere at this blasted school, and the Slytherins would be even more unhappy with him now that he had managed the impossible and had Snape take points from a member of his own House. Those that didn’t hate him barely tolerated him, and even they looked at him suspiciously, as though he might go Dark any minute.

Out of breath and feeling exhausted, he slumped against a damp wall, sliding down to the floor and pulling his knees to his chest, huddling for warmth and wishing he knew how to do it by magic.

Hermione probably did. The thought of her made his feelings of isolation worse, and he choked back a sob. He was _Slytherin_. He would _not_ cry. Not on his first day of class.

Harry sighed, closing his eyes and losing himself in his thoughts. Though he had only really only had the chance to stay friends with anyone for maybe the last two years, he desperately missed that feeling of belonging, of having others to relate to, commiserate with, laugh with. His longing for Daphne, for her warm smile and loving arms, was like a physical pain now, eating at him slowly.

Time passed, he wasn’t sure how much, when he finally checked his watch, the partly magical clockwork device telling him that he had managed to miss dinner in the course of his miserable self-reflection. It was fine; Harry wasn’t feeling much like eating anyway.

He pondered the wisdom of seeking out Flitwick, or even Dumbledore, just to have someone to look at him like he was not diseased. But he was afraid they would do exactly that, or that he would run into Malfoy again. Looking around, he then realized that he had absolutely _no_ idea where in the dungeons he was, just that he was freezing and his joints were terribly sore from crouching in place for over an hour. “Just great,” he whispered to himself.

A quiet sound caught his attention: a distant, faint music, haunting in its beauty. He rose, stretching out and listening for the source, and began to follow it. Warmth began to pour into his bones as he walked. Each time he thought he was getting closer, the sound became nearly inaudible once more, but still he followed, knowing somehow in his heart of hearts that it would not lead him astray. Before long, he found himself standing in a corridor leading to the entrance to the Slytherin Common Room. The music faded, and Harry found himself missing it. He gasped “ _Salazar_ ” to the shallow serpentine relief, and the hidden door slid aside. Harry stumbled through it, emotions and thoughts colliding in his mind with the brightness of Muggle fireworks.

He made his way to the Dormitory, ignoring the curious looks he was getting from his Housemates lounging about the Common Room. Passing Zabini wordlessly, he took off his shoes, climbed onto his bed, pulled out _Hogwarts: A History_ , and let go. At some point, his strength failed him, and he drifted into unconsciousness.

 

  

 

Far away, in one of the many small towers of the castle, Albus Dumbledore pondered. Not an hour ago he had arrived in his office from a meeting with Minerva to discover Fawkes producing the most wonderful music, but for no apparent cause. It almost sounded like a call from a mother to her young, but that was impossible, as Fawkes was a phoenix, and they did not _have_ young. He would have to think further on this.

And then, inspired for reasons he did not think to examine, he drew from his bookshelf a battered leather volume containing a collection of photos. When he opened them, the smiling faces of the Order of the Phoenix, shortly before the murder of the McKinnons, greeted him. But his eyes were immediately drawn to the figure of Lily Evans Potter, her long red hair hanging loosely over her back, smiling broadly, with an arm around her husband. And just visible, if you squinted, was the bump of her pregnancy.

A future _Slytherin_ , Albus mused. Troubling, yes, but as he thought about it, perhaps he owed himself a reminder that one’s House did not define his or her path. And so he flipped toward the back of the album, and gazed sadly upon the bright and handsome face of Gellert Grindelwald, and the Gryffindor badge glistening proudly upon his chest.

 

 

  

Harry had his first Defence Against the Dark Arts class the next day, another double period, with the Ravenclaws. It turned out to be someone’s idea of a bad joke, or at least a really distasteful prank. It was impossible to tell whether Professor Quirrell was competent or not: the man seemed terrified of everything, including his students, couldn’t get anything out without stuttering, and seemed unwilling to do a single practical lesson. DADA was unquestionably one of the most important classes Hogwarts had to offer, and _this_ was the best Dumbledore could do?

Their mumbling professor briefly described the course aims, which were vague to say the least, something about awareness of threats and some steps for their neutralization or minimization, and told them to read the first fifteen pages of their textbook while he disappeared into his office. Harry had just finished when Quirrell re-emerged to dismiss them, at least ten minutes early, and he hurried out of the classroom to avoid Malfoy and his thugs.

Harry then had a rare free period, which he spent in the library finishing his Charms essay and working on his History of Magic essay. The library was already beginning to feel as much a home to him at Hogwarts as the Slytherin Dormitories, if not more so, as besides the occasional hiss of a student or finger pointed in his direction, he was able to work mostly undisturbed at the small table he had selected outside of the Magical History section.

He made his way down to lunch, picking a mostly empty portion of the Slytherin table to briefly get something in his stomach and continued to work on his essays. The more he focused on schoolwork, the less he thought about his dismal social situation, and that was motivation enough. He made a mental note to check the library’s references on Goblins, to cross-reference with those in the very traditional wizarding history textbook that Binns had assigned. That wizards were almost always victims of Goblin treachery or aggression seemed rather suspicious. 

Finishing his work, he pulled out his timetable and saw he had fifteen minutes to get to Herbology with the Hufflepuffs. He finally reached the Entrance Hall and joined the mob of students heading out onto the grounds. He spotted Nott and followed him to the greenhouses.

 

 

Herbology really wasn’t that interesting. As much as Trish had tried to get her friends into the subject, Harry just wasn’t into plants that much, magical or not. During the lesson, Professor Spout, the plump, rosy-cheeked witch that headed Hufflepuff, gave them an overview of the course aims and a few notes about safety and the rules. They had just enough time to start working with some Slithering Snodgrass that needed pruning. Harry managed to accomplish the task without killing the plant, more than could be said for the hapless Ernie MacMillan, who more or less decapitated his. This caused a great deal of distress among the Hufflepuffs, and a great deal of amusement among the Slytherins, Harry excluded. He was hardly one to mock somebody for failing at their first go.  

After Herbology, the students proceeded to the Great Hall for dinner. Exchanging a few empty pleasantries with Nott and Greengrass, he ate enough to quiet his stomach, and returned alone to the Common Room, where he started his homework, then decided to take a trip to the library before curfew. He entered the huge, cavernous space and spotted the librarian, Madam Pince, chasing out a group of whispering Gryffindors. Harry looked over and saw a cart full of books to be put back on their shelves. Out of pure curiosity, he began browsing the titles. He saw nothing of interest, and moved on, looking over a shelf on Defense Against the Dark Arts. He moved deeper into the library, hoping to find some new reading material, then spotted a familiar bushy-haired girl sitting in a chair, a massive book sitting open on her lap.

Harry hesitated before he spoke. “Hello Hermione.”

The girl started, nearly dropping the enormous tome, looking up at him suspiciously. “Potter. What do you want?”

“It would be nice to talk to you,” Harry admitted, his shoulder slumping. To his dismay, Harry saw her eyes searching the area around them, looking for either an escape route or signs that Harry had not come alone. “You really don’t have reason to be scared of me.”

“Don’t I?” she asked, somewhat scathingly. 

“I don’t think so,” he said softly. 

“Potter, you’re a Slytherin. I’m a Muggleborn Gryffindor. I have no reason to trust you, and honestly, you have no reason to associate with me.”

“And yet I’m here,” Harry pointed out, impatiently. “Why can’t you accept that my intentions are good?”

“Precisely because I don’t _trust_ you,” she said sharply. Harry winced a bit at that. “Look, Potter. I’m an outsider in this world. I didn’t know magic _existed_ until a few months ago. So when elder Gryffindors tell me that Slytherins are untrustworthy…well, I guess I listen, because otherwise I don’t know where to turn.”

“That’s nonsense,” Harry protested. 

She huffed. “You would say that.” 

“Hermione…” he began.

“Don’t,” she said, her eyes slightly pleading. “Just don’t. I know from meeting you that you aren’t as bad as the others. I suppose that’s why I’m still talking to you.” She frowned, worrying at her lip. “Angelina told me that I had to be careful around Slytherins, because they could trick you into things…well, I suppose she meant when we were a bit older, but…”

Harry gaped at her. “You think…you think I’d…? Granger, that’s barmy.”

She softened a bit at that. “I suppose that was unfair, though I did say I thought you were better than that." She sighed. "Look, Potter. I don’t want to be _used_ in any way, including for help with your homework, or that of your mates. I dealt with that in primary school, and I won’t have any of it now.” She flipped another page in the huge tome. 

“ _Mates_?” Harry scoffed. “Hermione, the entire House _despises_ me. I’m a complete outcast.”

“ _You_? An outcast? I can’t believe that,” she said shortly, closing the book with a ‘thump.’ She met his eyes, pleading. “Potter…Harry,” she corrected, “just…just leave me be. It’s better for both of us that way. I need to go now.” 

“Hermione…” he begged.

“I’m not a fool, Potter!” she hissed angrily. 

Harry’s frustration boiled over. “Well, you are doing a bloody convincing impression of it right now!”

Hermione paled, dropped the book, and ran. Harry tried to call after her, then gave up. At that moment, Madam Pince poked her head around the corner, looking furious.

“No shouting! I want you out of the Library this instant!”

Growling, Harry balled his fists helplessly and stormed out.

Angry beyond description, Harry tore through the corridors, finally finding an empty classroom, where he walked to the middle of the floor, staring at the blackboard, rage coursing through his body _._ _It’s not_ bloody fair _!_ _What have I done to deserve this_! He noticed objects around him shaking, and then he let go, as bursts of accidental magic cracked glass and splintered wood. He let the magic course through him, until he staggered, breathing heavily. Then he realized - to his embarrassment - that he had just done something Daphne had warned him endlessly to avoid: drained his own magic to the point of exhaustion. It was especially dangerous for a young wizard such as himself.

Still, the experience had been quite cathartic. He looked somewhat apologetically at the destruction around him, wondering if he should take responsibility for it. _I’m in a_ magical _castle,_ he reminded himself. _I think it will be taken care of._  

Harry picked up his rucksack and made for the door, checking to see if he was being observed. He wasn’t, but he _was_ tiring quickly. Cursing his own stupidity, he walked – no, stumbled rather – back to the dungeons, just making it back to his four-poster bed, ignoring a concerned look from Nott, before he was overwhelmed, and plunged into darkness.

 

 

Harry awoke the next day very early, a good thing because he realized that he had slept in his robes, and he needed a shower badly. A long time later, feeling clean for the first time in a day, Harry dressed and sat back on his bed, trying to find escape in his books. It was wholly unsuccessful. He was also sore and fatigued, which probably had to do with the magical exhaustion he had so foolishly inflicted on himself.

Truth be told, he wasn’t completely sure why he was so persistent in trying to befriend Hermione Granger. He didn’t care that she was Muggleborn; he’d had several Muggle friends when he was younger. She was a brilliant witch and extremely intelligent, and overall seemed like a very interesting person. He was a little young to be fancying girls, so he figured that wasn’t it.

Perhaps it was because she had talked to him on the boat. That put her in a very small category of individuals at this school that had spoken two words to him with a smile on their face.

He was angry, too. Angry with the Gryffindors for making up lies and rumours. Angry for Snape hating him for no apparent reason. Angry with the school for being unable to see past his Slytherin badge and green tie. Angry with Daphne for making him believe that all the Houses were equal. Angry with the Hat for putting him here. And most of all, angry with Hermione for believing the stuff the Gryffindors were saying when she was far too clever for that.

The day’s lessons passed uneventfully. Another Charms class, another History of Magic class, and then he found himself in a classroom the Astronomy tower at just before midnight.

Astronomy was an interesting class, even though it seemed to many rather pointless. Professor Sinistra had addressed this. “Now, some of you with Muggle backgrounds, or familiarity with Muggles, will probably have heard of Astrology. And I imagine that a fair number of you think it nothing but tabloid bollocks and hardly worth anyone’s care. This is not _precisely_ true. What Muggles use for predicting their temperaments and futures is in fact a warped and decayed version of magical rites from centuries ago. I can say little on the subject at this point in your education, because many of these rites and rituals are _extremely_ dangerous, and even banned by the Ministry. But I will tell you this – the location of the planets and stars within the celestial sphere has a _tremendous_ effect on certain types of magic. So I ask all of you to focus hard on your studies, and reap the rewards at a later date. Now, please look at the parchment before you, and with a partner, follow me up to the roof, where you will get a bit of practical experience.” 

Harry had waited silently as the Slytherins and Ravenclaws around him chose theirs, and waited for the numbers to dictate his own partner. It turned out to be a Muggleborn, Lisa Turpin. “I suppose it’s you and me, then, Potter?” she asked, sounding a bit guarded. Terry Boot came by, and clasped her shoulder briefly, giving Harry a warning look, before he and Padma Patil gathered their things together.

It was a cool evening, and Harry wrapped his cloak closer around him as they ascended the staircase to the roof. Thankfully, only a few scattered clouds floated in the night skies above them, giving them a spectacular view of the stars. The area atop the tower had magically expanded, easily able to accommodate a score of individuals, and their telescopes and other instruments were arranged next to pairs of stools. Harry took the nearest one, and Lisa sat down next to him. “Thanks,” he said softly.

She looked at him, surprised. Lisa was shorter than him, with long, straight hair of a deep mahogany, her eyes a light blue, almost grey, shining with intelligence from behind thick-rimmed spectacles. “What do you mean, Potter?” The way she said his surname didn’t carry the pejorative bite as it so often had here. 

“You are willing to work with me,” he said simply. She nodded, but clearly didn’t really understand.

Professor Sinistra flitted among her students, helping them adjust their equipment and offering helpful hints as they tried to find a set of specified stellar objects.

Lisa scrunched up her face as she consulted the list in the dull moonlight. “ _Lumos_ ,” Harry cast. She smiled appreciatively.

“Thanks. It’s one drawback of being Muggleborn, not knowing that sort of magic when I got here,” she said. “I know you were…oh sorry, pardon my rudeness…” 

“What?”

“Well, I know you are an orphan,” she said softly. Harry nodded. “Did you have a wizarding upbringing, then? You certainly seem to know more than most of the first years."

“I was raised by a friend of my mother’s,” he said, leaving it at that. Lisa nodded.

“Alright…sorry for asking. You’re a bit of a mystery to us, Potter. What with being the Boy-Who-Lived and a Slytherin at the same time.” 

Harry laughed softly, and Lisa looked a bit alarmed. “It’s not…it’s not that easy. _Nothing_ is that easy.”

“I see,” she said, though she clearly didn’t.

Harry did not bother to correct her further, as Professor Sinistra was headed in their direction, and it would be best if they looked busy when she finished reprimanding Goyle for nearly breaking the delicate traversing mechanisms of his telescope. “Okay, so we’re looking for Mars first? It ought to be – over there,” she pointed. “Well, I think. I live in the middle of Birmingham, you know, so I didn’t spend much time looking up at the stars. Where’d you grow up?”

“Newfoundland…well, most recently,” he said. “And yes, I think you are right.” He moved the telescope in the right direction, and began adjusting the instruments. “There, I think we might have it.”

He let Lisa take a look. “Ooh, yes. That’s very good. Let’s just make a few tweaks.”

“And how are you two getting along?” Their Astronomy professor’s voice came from behind them. Lisa jumped a bit and nearly whacked her head on the instruments. “Careful, dear.” 

“Sorry, Professor, you just startled me,” she said sheepishly. “We’ve gotten off to a good start.”

“May I?” she asked. Harry and Lisa moved aside while she examined their work. “Ah, yes, well done. Five points each to Slytherin and Ravenclaw. I would take advantage of your success to familiarize yourselves with this telescope. It’s a fascinating bit of technology, developed first by Muggles, adapted by wizards. And now, arguably, equally important to all of us. I have always admired the Muggles, sending men into space as they have. With some help, of course,” she grinned. “My uncle was an Arithmancy prodigy, and a technical advisor for America’s lunar missions.” 

“Galileo was a wizard, wasn’t he?” Harry asked.

“Oh yes, most certainly, and he got into quite a bit of trouble as a result. But he learned what he knew from a pair of brilliant Dutch Muggles – well, to be precise, Lippershey was a Muggle, and Jansen a Squib. But I daresay he made the best of things. And then there was Kepler, and a greater astronomer I scarcely think there will ever be.” His professor’s voice was light and cheerful as she talked about her favourite subject. “Ah, I suppose I should move on. Mr. Malfoy appears to be having some trouble.” 

Harry glanced over. Malfoy’s telescope was pointed down at the battlements, and he and Pansy were clearly arguing. Their professor made to move off, and then paused briefly. “Mr. Potter?”

“Yes?” He looked up, as did Lisa.

“If you wouldn’t mind, I would like it if you could stay behind for a short time after class. You are in no trouble, fear not.”

“Alright,” he agreed. Professor Sinistra seemed kind enough, and he was not going to turn down the chance to make a friend. She nodded and moved off.

Lisa looked at him curiously. “What was that about, Potter?”

“Couldn’t tell you,” he answered, though he had some ideas.

They found a number of other planets and constellations. Lisa was a good partner – attentive and willing to listen to his suggestions, but also strong-willed enough to call him out when she thought he had made a mistake, which on several occasions, he did. All in all, it was one of the most pleasant social interactions he had enjoyed in days. 

“That will be all for this evening, class!” Professor Sinistra called. “Good work from all of you, and off to bed with you. There are prefects waiting at the entrance to the classroom to escort you to your House dormitories; please don’t wander off.”

Lisa nodded thanks to Harry and gathered her things, moving off to rejoin her Ravenclaw classmates. The Boy-Who-Lived couldn’t help but be slightly encouraged. Soon the tower was empty except for himself and Professor Sinistra, and he noticed that the space atop the tower had contracted once more, leaving only one telescope remaining. The woman came up to him. “Mr. Potter, I wanted to speak with you about your…circumstances since your arrival at Hogwarts.”

Harry looked at her in confusion. “I do have eyes, Mr. Potter. I must admit I was as shocked as any to see you Sorted into Slytherin, although I daresay the reactions of some of my colleagues were greatly unprofessional. It is, despite its reputation, a good House. It was my House, as I mentioned, but well, it seems that things have changed, and not for the better.” 

The reminder that his Professor had been a Slytherin as well was strangely comforting to Harry. “It hasn’t been easy,” he admitted.

“I’m sure of that,” she said softly. “Mr. Potter, it is not, strictly speaking, my place to offer any kind of relationship besides that which normally exists between instructor and student. Under normal circumstances, I would suggest discussing matters with your Head of House…” 

Harry grimaced.

“Yes, I am aware of Professor Snape’s shortcomings in that regard,” she said. “As I was saying, it would normally be appropriate to recommend a meeting between you and your Head of House, or some of the older Slytherin prefects. I suspect, however, that they would not be of much help. And so, Mr. Potter, I offer you this: Things are never as dark as they seem to be. Slytherin is a difficult House to live in, especially if you come from a background that is not… _usual_ for a member of that House. As a half-blooded witch, I learned this quickly. But in time, I also learned who my friends really were, and found them within and outside of my House. I ask you to stay strong, with the knowledge and expectation that things may change at any moment.”

Harry stared at her for a moment. “Thank…thank you, Professor. This means a great deal.”

“It is nothing, Mr. Potter, that I would not expect Professor Snape to do in his capacity as your Head of House, but I am aware of the difficulties there, and you have my apologies for that.” 

“Professor?” Harry asked. “Could you tell me _why_   Sn…Professor Snape seems to hate me?”

The older woman sighed. “That is _not_ my place, Mr. Potter. It is my understanding that a great deal of bad blood existed between your father and Professor Snape, and it was never resolved. I’m afraid that, deprived of the chance to punish your father for his behaviour, he has deemed it acceptable to take it out on you.” 

Professor Sinistra closed her eyes, lacing her fingers under her chin. “Mr. Potter, I can do very little in these circumstances. I’m afraid that, having just started this term, I do not have a great deal of influence here. Severus is Slytherin’s Head of House, and as such has full control over his students. But I will see what I can do to draw attention to Professor Snape’s antagonism towards you, when and where it should manifest. I regret to say I cannot be seen to do anything more than that.”

“I understand,” Harry replied, grateful for even that much. “Thank you, Professor.”

She smiled kindly at him. “I’m sorry, my dear boy. But you’ll make it here; I have a good feeling about you, and not just because of who you bested as a baby. Now, you should go along to bed. The prefects will have departed already, so…” She drew a piece of parchment from her ashen-grey robes. “Yes, that ought to do. If there is any problem, do not hesitate to contact me at once. Now, I need to finish up a few things here. Goodnight, Mr. Potter.” 

“Good night, Professor,” he said softly. Harry descended the staircase, moving through the deserted corridors. He encountered no signs of life on his way back to the dungeons, and the Common Room was empty when he arrived. Harry changed into his dressing gown, lay back, and let sleep take him.

 

 

Another day passed without incident. There was another Transfiguration class, another pointless Defence class. Still no response from Daphne, and Harry was, despite his positive interactions with Lisa Turpin and Professor Sinistra Wednesday night, becoming increasingly lonely. He considered starting to write in a diary but decided against it; he always struggled to get his thoughts in order in his mind, much less on paper. He desperately used a school barn owl to send notes to his friends in Ottawa, hoping for news. Seeking no pity, he said nothing about being feared and alone. 

Finally, on Friday, Daphne’s reply came. A good thing, too, because first thing he had double Potions with Snape, which would be his first prolonged encounter with the acrimonious Potions master. Something told him that he needed good news, and he got it when Hedwig flew in with the rest of the morning post, also carrying a small package. Hedwig came down for a landing and Harry absent-mindedly scratched her behind the ears as she picked at his bacon. He grabbed the envelope and ripped it open.

 

 _My dearest Harry,_

_I’m very sorry how low it has taken me to reply to this, but I forgot to lower the Unplottablity Wards, and Hedwig was flying around in circles for over two days, looking for the house. Poor dear was quite exhausted after the transatlantic flight, and rather peeved with me.  I’ve lowered the wards, as such secrecy is no longer needed, so this shouldn’t be a problem again._

_I’m pleased to hear that you were Sorted into Slytherin. Despite what others may think, it is a house that offers opportunity for success and advancement for those willing to take it. I hope that things are better with your roommates, though I doubt it based on what you have told me._

_As for Snape, well, it’s a long story. The short of it is for various reasons, your father and Severus hated each other with a passion. They both staged rather vicious pranks and exchanged hexes as often as words. Several of the pranks your father pulled were cruel and dangerous, though I can assure you that Snape was no better._

_James did get better; otherwise Lily wouldn’t have gone near him. He was a good man, and he regretted being such an arrogant fool, so don’t think too badly of him. I won’t get into specifics, but Severus had some of it coming. Regardless it is not surprising that Snape hasn’t let it go, the man is one to hold a grudge. Tread lightly around him, Harry. Don’t antagonize him, and don’t let him provoke you. He’ll try his best._

_I’d recommend seeking out Hagrid, the Groundskeeper, if you were looking for someone to talk to. Just don’t eat any food he offers you, or agree to go with him to meet what he lovingly refers to as ‘interesting creatures.’ Interesting for him means they have sharp claws, teeth, and or some dangerous quality._

_I hope things improve. Remember, I’m always there for you in mind, even if I cannot be in body._

_Love,_

_Daphne_

Harry put the letter down, thoughts rushing though his mind. Just about every worse-case scenario Daphne had mentioned had come true over the past few days. Her suggestion of seeking out the Hogwarts’ gamekeeper puzzled him, although it certainly seemed worth a shot.  

Suddenly, Daphne’s letter was grabbed out of his hand. His eyes blazing, he saw Draco Malfoy sneering at him. Before the other boy could read a word, Harry’s wand was out. 

“ _Drop it, Malfoy,”_ Harry whispered. Malfoy glared at him and released the letter. Crabbe and Goyle, having just now noticed something was wrong, moved to their master’s aid, but at that moment Professor Sinistra moved down the aisle, stopping to talk to one of the older Slytherin girls, and they thought better of it. Harry pulled his wand away and folded up the letter, pushing it into his robe pocket. Malfoy stalked off. 

After breakfast was over, Harry headed back down to the dungeons for what promised to be nothing short of pure torture. He was not disappointed.

 

 

Harry arrived several minutes early, but he’d been beaten by most students in the class, and Snape thus decided that Harry was late. “Detention, Potter, with Mr. Filch. You will arrive on time in future. _Now get in!”_

Fuming, Harry did as he was ordered, sitting down at an empty table. Ron Weasley snickered behind him, while Dean Thomas was trying to hold back laughter of his own. Malfoy walked in just then followed by Crabbe and Goyle, and Snape, of course, pretended not the notice them. The tables were soon completely full. Harry glanced around and realized that Hermione wasn’t there.

Seconds later, she burst into the room, panting heavily. Snape rounded on her, and she stuck out her hand, handing him a note. “I was speaking with Professor McGonagall.”

Snape sneered. “Very well. Take a seat, _NOW!_ ”

Hermione gave him a strange look, then Harry watched her start scanning for a spot. Harry understood why she had suddenly froze, every spot except for the one next to Harry was occupied. Harry shrugged helplessly. She looked at Snape, her eyes wide with apprehension. Harry felt a surge of anger go through him.

“Is there a _problem_ , Miss Granger?” Snape asked icily. “Or is the insufferable know-it-all simply unable to find her seat?” Hermione jerked her head up and glared at him. “ _Sit down, Granger!”_ Snape barked. Hermione let out a yelp and ran over to Harry’s table, gingerly sitting down next to him and watching him closely, as if expecting him to attack at any moment.

Snape moved to the front of the class, and summoned a sheet of parchment. He began reading off the class roster, making a snide comment under his breath every once in a while, mostly for the Gryffindors.

“Miss Granger,” he said, adding, “ _Though I suppose her future attendance will be predicated on her survival after her being paired with Potter.”_ Hermione stiffened, and glanced anxiously at Harry, who was resolutely looking in Snape’s direction with a blank look on his face. 

Finally, he reached…

“Mr. Potter…our new _celebrity_ …” he sneered. “I do you hope you realize that favouritism and your _history_ will earn you no special treatment…”

“No, sir,” he said, biting back a fiercer retort.

Snape’s eyes widened as he stared into Harry’s. He looked furious. “Five points from Slytherin for your cheek, Potter!” He gave Malfoy a pointed look. Harry seethed as he realized what Snape was doing. He was trying to turn the whole of Slytherin House against Harry by taking points from his own house. It was well known that Severus Snape _never_ took points from Slytherin. Jars of potion ingredients around him began to rattle quietly as his anger pounded in his veins. Then he realized what was going on and let out a long breath. The rattling stopped. He had to stay calm; he couldn’t have a repeat of the incident after the library.

He was broken out of his thoughts by Snape barking, “ _POTTER!”_

He looked up. Snape sneered at him. “What would I get if I added a root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

Harry racked his brain. It sounded vaguely familiar. _Draught of something. Draught of Death…No, Draught of Live Death…NO, Draught of Living Death!_

“ _Anything_ , Potter? I’ll have you know-“ Snape began. 

“Draught of Living Death, sir. An extremely powerful sleeping potion,” Harry said in as level a voice as he could manage. He was still seething from Snape’s attempt to make his life miserable _outside_ the classroom.

Snape looked surprised that Harry knew the answer for a moment, then smirked and said, “I don’t believe I instructed you to aid Mr. Potter, Miss Granger. Five points from Gryffindor.” Hermione stiffened, while Ron let out a cry, then glared at Harry, as if it was _his_ fault. 

His partner protested her innocence. “But sir, I didn’t say anything! I knew the answer, but…”

“I have an idea,” Snape said, pulling his wand out and aiming it at Hermione. “ _Silencio!_ Now, Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?” Harry was baffled, he’d never heard of such a thing. Hermione, meanwhile, was turning red, and Harry saw tears welling up in her eyes. Behind her, Malfoy was snickering loudly, while Crabbe and Goyle were guffawing. Pansy Parkinson was smirking. Harry’s ire rose again.

“I don’t know, sir, it wasn’t covered in the first few chapters of the assigned textbook.” Something possessed him to rise to his partner's defence, though it might have been the admittedly unwise urge to provoke Snape that pushed him over the edge. “Professor, I do suggest you fix Hermione before I report you to Professor Dumbledore for hexing a student. I don’t believe that is allowed.”

“Of all the little _insolent…Potter!_ Detention and _15_ points from Slytherin _!”_  Angrily yanking his wand up, he aimed it at Hermione and barked, “ _Finite Incantatem!”_

Weasley and his Gryffindor mates apparently found the whole situation hilarious, both Hermione ranting while unable to make noise and Harry getting disciplined for talking back. Longbottom looked considerably less enthusiastic, although that was probably because he was _completely_ terrified of Severus Snape. The other Gryffindors were hunched over their desks, their faces red and their hands in their mouths to keep from laughing. Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but Harry placed his hand on her shoulder. She jerked back in surprise, and Harry gave her a look that said _“Don’t say anything.”_ To his surprise, she tentatively nodded. 

“For your information, _Potter_. I am not bound by anything when I quiz you. A bezoar is found in a stomach of a goat and is an antidote for most poisons.” The venomous look that Snape and the other Slytherins were giving him suggested that Harry might do well to get a stock of them.

To his surprise and pleasure, Hermione cast him a sympathetic look. Harry weakly smiled back at her and her expression changed to puzzlement.

“Let’s try again,” Snape whispered maliciously. “What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?” Harry was suddenly extremely grateful for Trish’s obsession with Herbology.

“Nothing, sir, they are the same plant,” Harry responded. 

“Indeed. Muggles also call it aconite. Well? Why aren’t you writing this down?” He asked the class in general. There was a sudden rustling as students tore through their bags for ink, parchment, and quills.

After Snape detailed the course aims in brief (with not a few scathing comments directed at the Gryffindors and Harry), he introduced the potions they would be working on. Harry recognized it as one of the common beginner’s level potions, the Boil Cure Potion. Harry set to work preparing the cauldron while Hermione wordlessly gathered their materials from the student’s store cupboard. She returned with her arms full of ingredients and sat down as Harry brought the water in her cauldron to a boil.

“Alright, Potter. Do you want to add the ingredients or do you want me to?” Hermione asked. 

Harry paused. “Well, I can tell you want to do it yourself, but remember that if I’m doing less work, Snape is more likely to give both of us a zero. You read off the materials and check my work. I think I can do this, Flitwick mentioned my mum was good at Potions.”

Hermione nodded, accepting his logic.

They set to work. Harry had successfully added the first four ingredients and was carefully stirring when he saw felt Snape standing over him. Harry fought down his anger and continued stirring to Hermione’s nod.

“Potter. The potion is a shade off. It should be purple. I hope Miss Granger doesn’t mind her academic performance suffering because of your incompetence,” he said silkily. Harry knew she would _if_ his incompetence wasn’t a figment of Snape’s imagination. Harry had done everything right so far and knew it. Snape was just trying to sabotage him by disrupting his concentration. 

“I’ll keep that in mind, _sir_ ,” Harry said. He glanced at the instructions, and with a confirming glance at his partner, the two lifted the cauldron off of the fire. Snape huffed and was about to say something when an explosion and a hissing sound came from one of the Gryffindor tables. “ _Idiot boy!_ ” He yelled at Neville Longbottom, who was sprouting boils all over his body. “Does it not say to add the porcupine quills _after_ taking the cauldron off the fire? _Potter!_ Thought you’d look good if he fouled it up, did you? _Forgot_ to mention to remove the cauldron from the heat? Five more points from Slytherin. Finnegan, you were working with him, take him to the Hospital Wing at once!”

Harry gritted his teeth and said nothing, though he did notice Malfoy’s questioning glance at Snape. Harry seethed, but took a deep breath.

“Add the porcupine quills now, Harry,” Hermione instructed, her voice strained. Harry did so. They finished the potion early, and after double-checking all of the steps, Harry gathered a sample into the bottle and brought it up to Snape’s desk. Hermione looked on expectantly.

There was a strangled cry of protest from the Gryffindors as Dean Thomas got a detention for swearing something under his breath when Malfoy earned thirty points for his potion, which was obviously the wrong shade and emitting a foul odour. _Snape truly is brilliant. Take points from me, and make the House hate me, then give back all the points and more for no real reason. They still hate me, and Slytherin has a net benefit. That bastard._

As the sound of the tolling bell rang through the dungeons, Harry rose and without a second glance at Hermione and stormed out of the room, his emotions threatening to rip through the delicate mental shield he had painstakingly constructed to prevent an outburst. His temper flared as he saw and heard the Gryffindors pointing and snickering at him, and he took off for his dormitory.

He needed to write Daphne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Believe it or not, as rough as this chapter is, it is actually toned down substantially from the original draft. I really put poor Harry through the ringer. 
> 
> I'm interested to hear if you think that it is still too much. I think the level of hostility that Harry encounters here is not that unreasonable given how the attitudes of non-Slytherins towards Slytherin House are portrayed in canon. Ron and Hagrid openly state that they are evil, with Hagrid making the dubious claim that there was never a wizard who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin. If that is as common a sentiment as it seems, it is not a stretch that Hermione, as clever as she is, would still fall prey to that prejudice. 
> 
> As an aspiring academic, I find Snape to be a truly loathsome character, and while his outlook on Harry may change, this is not at all an AU where Snape mentors Harry and turns out to be not that bad. 
> 
> Still, I hope you did see some of the vestiges of hope.


	6. Taking to the Skies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Opportunities arise, and Harry seizes them.

Daphne’s response came a few days later. While she offered as much sympathy as could be managed through post, told a few embarrassing stories from her early Hogwarts days, and told him that she would try to speak to Dumbledore about Snape, she could scarcely offer solutions to his problems, or convincingly explain the confusing and hurtful behaviour of those around him.

Perhaps due to Lisa Turpin’s intervention, Hermione no longer seemed frightened to be alone with Harry, but still seemed to be avoiding him. On more than one occasion he would see her pass by in the library out of the corner of his eye, look at him, and walk off a bit quicker than she’d come. Her Housemates continued to glare at him, murmuring of his treachery and spreading rumours he was practicing Dark magic. The Ravenclaws were civil, mostly. Lisa even waved at him occasionally. The Hufflepuffs, even the kind one he’d met on the train, wanted absolutely nothing to do with him.

He could blame at least some of the abuse on Ron Weasley, who, despite their last conversation, seemed to have made it his mission to convince others that Harry was as Dark and dangerous as the worst Slytherin, which was _really_ appalling, when you thought about it.

He’d even heard whispers that perhaps You-Know-Who had spared his life, using him as some kind of heir. It was ridiculous, all of it, but rumours, once started and disseminated, were ferocious, and clung to him fiercely.

Eleven-year olds were a lot nastier than they were given credit for.

Weasley’s behaviour could partially be explained, he gathered from talking to others, including the twins, by the fact that Ron had idolized him a bit as a child, and his disappointment led him to manufacture malicious rumours to cover up his own feelings of betrayal.

That was being generous, but it might be true.

Not that it excused his behaviour. What he might have seen as harmless rumour-mongering among the Gryffindors, if Harry was to be charitable (and as simple-minded as Ron seemed, it was possible) had cast the Boy-Who-Lived adrift socially, such that almost no one would voluntarily associate with him. And if _that_ was truly what the Weasley boy had intended, he was no better than Snape.

Speaking of the vile Potions Master, over the last few weeks, if it was possible, he’d gotten nastier. Once, he had actively sabotaged Harry’s potion, then given him detention for complaining. He paired with Theodore Nott most of the time, the only one of his classmates that didn’t hate him. Well, if he did, he didn’t show it, which with this particular boy, meant he could draw few conclusions.

Nott was no moral Gryffindor – Harry had a sneaking suspicion that he might have been closer to his Housemate if the circulating rumours had any kind of factual basis. But he was civil, and occasionally amusing, even if his prejudice against Muggles and those of their blood was pronounced and ugly.

Slytherin House as a whole resented him, mostly because he was the only Serpent that Snape would take points off of, even if Slytherin’s Head of House would usually make up for it by awarding unmerited points to his favourites. Guided by Malfoy’s own rumours and lies, the older students believed that Harry was baiting Snape. It was not terrible uncommon for him to be shoved into a wall by a passing student, without even seeing their face, or even to be hexed in the Slytherin Common Room. After Circe Bulstrode (he thought) had hit him in the face with a Stinging Hex, causing him to overturn a pot of ink and thoroughly ruin two essays and his robes, he had made himself scarce there, completing his assignments in remote corners of the Library or inside his own bed with the curtains firmly shut. He ate irregularly, his appetite suffering with roiling emotions and his aversion to being around most of the student body. Madam Pomfrey had noticed his pallid face and bony frame and made him eat a supper in the Hospital Wing, which was probably the most food he’d had in two weeks. 

His mood had not been improved by several detentions involving Filch and some truly ancient potions equipment.

His ill-temper had been the subject of harassment from Malfoy and a couple of the second and third year Slytherins, who would tell him to cheer up, once hitting him in the face with a weak Striking Hex to “get his blood flowing.” Embarrassed, he had said nothing, not that the Slytherins prefects or Head of House would be any help at all. Sinistra gave him pep-talks occasionally, but seemed to have distanced herself, which made more sense once he saw her and Snape embroiled in a heated argument that might well have involved him.

Despite his relative social isolation, he did see Hermione often, and they would exchange a look once in a while, and one time she actually said “Good Morning,” as he passed by. He also saw her harassed by members of her own House for her studious ethics and rigid adherence to the rules. “Nightmare” was one of the kinder things they had said. He would see her rushing by sometimes, tears in her eyes, wishing that he felt in a position to help her. All too often the perpetrator seemed to be that piece of flobberworm mucus named Ronald Weasley, though it had to be said he was far from alone.

Respite of a sort arrived one morning in early October, with a notice on the Common Room board announcing that Flying Lessons would begin after lunch two days from now and continue through the week for those that desired or required further instruction. Once Madam Hooch had seen them fly and was satisfied by their technique and aerial awareness, they would be permitted to borrow school brooms as they wished. First years were not allowed their own brooms, generally. As it felt like ages since Daphne had let him onto her Cleansweep 4 back home, he relished the chance to get back in the air.

The thought reminded Harry that he hadn’t written his guardian in a week, which was mostly due to him having little to share – well, little that he was willing to tell Daphne for fear she’d Apparate over and pin Weasley and Malfoy against the ceiling. This, while tempting, was also not something that would improve his social circumstances. Despite his personal problems, his classes were going well – even if the Potions class period was absolutely dreadful (though the homework and essays were engaging enough - not that Snape ever gave him as high of marks as he thought he deserved, but he had a solid ‘A,’ so he was at least likely to pass the class). And despite the Potion Master’s interference, he _was_ developing a good feel for Potions, something that Daphne had found less than surprising. Though he best resembled his father physically, she said over and over that he had his mother’s mind.

Daphne wrote often, encouraging him to persevere and offering endless assurances that things would get better. She also continued to tell him to see the Hogwarts Gamekeeper. Harry wasn’t so inclined. The looks that Hagrid had been giving Harry since the Sorting could only be described as unfriendly.

Harry skipped breakfast, the second meal in a row he had not attended. Harry estimated he’d probably lost half a stone since he arrived at Hogwarts, and he’d been slim to begin with. He was a mess physically, something Madam Pomfrey did not hesitate to remind him of on the occasions when a student’s prank went badly enough that he ended up with seriously bumps and scrapes. He’d stopped even bothering to offer explanations, and met her offer to intervene on his behalf with a sceptical sigh. She had seemed to understand; unless Dumbledore would intervene directly, or another Head of House took a personal interest in him, there was little to be done when Harry could not identify his attackers.

On the other hand, complaints of bullying by the son of James Potter would elicit compassion from Snape roughly equivalent to that if he stepped on a spider in the dungeons 

Troubled during the day, he was also plagued by nightmares –most were of his parent’s deaths, the first of the kind he had had for years. He’d hurriedly researched Silencing Charms after Malfoy had threatened to set Crabbe and Goyle on him the next time Harry’s screaming woke him up. 

 

 

Harry entered the library, and wasn’t the least bit surprised to see Hermione Granger sitting alone in one of the armchairs, a book Harry recognized very well in her lap. It was _Quidditch Through the Ages_ , and she was browsing it nervously, her teeth clenched over her bottom lip.

“You really shouldn’t worry so much about it. Flying, I mean.” 

She looked up, starting for a moment, but at least she did not look to flee. “Well, that’s rather easy for _you_ to say. I’m guessing _you’ve_ been on a broom before,” Hermione said, haughtily. “When I heard that those tales about witches flying broomsticks were true, I thought Ron had to be pulling one over on me.” 

“I have,” Harry admitted. “I’ve always loved flying, as long as I can remember. If you practice, you’ll get the hang of it. It’s more about confidence that skill, at least to start with. It takes a lot more work to get to my level.”

“You certainly are modest, Mr. Potter,” she said sarcastically.

Harry shrugged. “It’s in my blood. Daphne’s just grateful I haven’t broken my neck yet.  But I really wouldn’t worry about it. Not enough to skip breakfast, anyway.” 

Hermione looked up at him, and her expression softened. “Why are you here then?” 

Harry shrugged. “Because I’m not hungry.” That wasn’t strictly true, but he really wasn’t in the mood to have his glee at being able to fly again spoiled by running into Draco Malfoy or Ron Weasley. 

“You weren’t at dinner last night,” Hermione observed carefully. “Or the night before that.” 

Harry raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t know you cared.”

Hermione scowled at him. “Trust a Slytherin to turn a show of concern into a smart remark.” She sighed, meeting his gaze. “I think you are lying about not being hungry.”

Harry shrugged. “Probably,” he admitted. “But I’m fine.” 

“You don’t _look_ it.”

“Everybody’s a critic…”

The Gryffindor glared at him. “You are so _flippant_! You look terrible Pot…Harry. You look like you might keel over at any moment, and you are missing meals.” 

“And why are you telling me this, exactly?” Harry asked. He did not mean to spurn Hermione’s overtures, even if they were made out of pity. But he wanted to know where they stood. Damn him, but he had too much pride to accept nothing but pity from a Gryffindor, even Hermione. Either she would at least smile when she saw him and call him by his first name, or she could leave him alone. 

“Because I _care_!” she hissed, slamming the book in front of her. “I’m going now. I’ve having a hard enough time without dealing with your cynicism!”

“Hermione…” Harry said, a bit of pleading in his voice.

“See you at Flying Lessons, Potter,” she said harshly, storming off.

Harry slumped against the case behind him, smacking his head back against a bookshelf noisily in frustration. It was a poor decision, as he hit hard enough to see some stars, _and_ earned the ire of the Librarian. “What do you think you are _doing_ , young man?” Madam Pince hissed.

“Leaving,” Harry answered honestly. 

He had made his way outside when he found a sight guaranteed to make his day worse. A red-headed prat was hissing angrily at the closest thing he had to a friend. His blood began to pound in his ears. “Care to repeat that to my face, Weasley?”

Ron looked up in surprise. “What are you doing, sneaking up on me like that?” 

“It’s not my fault you’re thick, Ron,” Harry snapped. “Let this go before it comes to wands. I’ve had a right rotten few days and I wouldn’t mind taking it out on you.”

He noticed Hermione cringe. 

“Are you _threatening_ me, Potter?”

Harry frowned in mock confusion. “Yes…Yes, I’m pretty sure that’s _exactly_ what I just did. So, what about, then? I doubt Thomas there wants any part of this.”

Dean backed away, hands raised. “You’ve got that right, Potter.” Neville Longbottom, who had maintained his distance throughout the entire incident, shrank even farther into the shadows. 

“Thanks, mate,” Ron snapped at his housemate. “What do you care about this, anyway, Potter? I thought you were too good for us Gryffindors.” 

“Well, most of you,” Harry admitted. “I make a few exceptions.”

“You’re rather fond of Granger, aren’t you?” he hissed nastily.

“I’m standing _right here_ , Ronald!” the aforementioned girl said indignantly.

Weasley didn’t seem to hear her. “She’s one of _us_ , Potter. You aren’t.”

Harry was about to retort when he noticed Pomona Sprout and Filius Flitwick coming toward them, immersed in their own conversation. He indicated them with his eyes, and Weasley spun and paled a bit. “I’m not done with you." 

“Not a chance,” Harry whispered. As they turned to go, Hermione met his eyes and mouthed ‘ _thank you_.’ Harry just stared at her as she went. 

“Mr. Potter, is everything quite alright?” Professor Sprout asked him, her voice cheery as always.

“Nothing unusual, Professor,” Harry replied honestly. A Slytherin might have detected the underlying sarcasm, but Sprout merely nodded and continued. Flitwick gave him a curious look, but soon he too was gone.

Harry’s stomach growled loudly. Forget it. His formerly good spirits were already sufficiently ruined that a confrontation or two in the Great Hall wouldn’t make much of a difference.

 

 

After an uneventful double Defence class which involved a lot of reading on _very_ general defensive magic, Harry went down to the Quidditch pitch. He spared a glance at Hermione, who looked quite worried, and she nodded politely, with the barest hint of a smile. Ron scowled and began immediately demanding some information from her. To everyone’s surprise, after a bit of arguing, Hermione slapped him across the face so hard she almost knocked him over. With a meaningful glance back at Harry, she proceeded to take a spot much closer to the Slytherins, standing next to Daphne Greengrass. Ron, his cheek red, looked livid. Hermione fixed him with a look that more or less implied sticking her tongue out. Harry watched the entire scene unfold with amused detachment and growing fondness.

Madam Hooch, a short woman with sharp features and yellowish, hawk-like eyes, strode confidently onto the pitch, an obsolescent Silver Arrow 8 under her arm. “All right all of you. There are brooms on the ground, stand next to one, extend your hand and say ‘UP!’” 

Harry wasn’t sure why this was necessary, but did so nonetheless. His broom instantly jumped into his hand, and he mounted the rickety old Shooting Star and waited for instructions. He glanced over at the other students, almost entirely Gryffindors and Slytherins. Hermione was beaming having called her broom on the first try. She sent a grateful glance his way, and he nodded. Weasley’s broom kept rolling over. Neville’s seemed to be rising tentatively, reflecting the anxiety of its prospective rider. Greengrass’s took a few tries, much to her frustration. Nott, Moon, and Zabini hadn’t bothered showing up. Tracey Davis had it immediately and seemed to know what she was doing; he thought he recalled her talking about Quidditch. Crabbe and Goyle were either entirely incompetent, or had found brooms that matched themselves in obstinacy. Dean had it on the second go, Seamus shortly afterward. Lavender looked like she thought the broom might bite her, dropping the handle when it finally obeyed her hesitant command. Beside her friend as always, Parvati had a bit more luck.

Malfoy had no problems with his broom, though the Gryffindors snickered when Madam Hooch began going around the students, inspecting their grip and posture, and informed him that he’d been riding it wrong for years.

Madam Hooch walked by Harry, remarking, “Good, Mr. Potter. I’m pleased to see you’ve inherited your father’s talents.” He allowed himself a small smile at that. 

Once they all had the grips and riding positions right, Hooch announced, “I’ll blow my whistle and you will kick off from the ground _gently_.” While some of the students, especially the Muggleborns, looked nervous; Harry was waiting for something more challenging. However, Neville’s nervousness was apparently quite serious as he not only kicked before Madam Hooch blew his whistle, but flew high into the air, gaining altitude at an alarming rate

…well, that’s what most of the class saw, but out of the corner of his vision he caught Malfoy’s wand being hastily shoved up his sleeve. Looking on in pity and growing dread, Harry saw it coming, and sure enough, the ungainly Gryffindor plummeted off his broom and landed hard on the ground with a loud, sickening CRACK.

Neville moaned in pain as Madam Hooch ran to his side, mumbling something about the inability to follow directions. She did a quick check and muttered, “Broken arm…Hospital Wing for you, boy.” She helped Neville, who was cradling his right arm against his chest and whimpering from the pain, to his feet. She began to lead him toward the castle, before turning around and yelling, “If I catch any of you in the air while I’m gone you’ll be expelled before you can say Quidditch!”

Harry set his broom down, in part to remove the temptation to disobey Hooch, and made his way over towards Millicent Bulstrode. She was in a group of Slytherins surrounding Draco Malfoy, who was mocking the injured Gryffindor, tossing a glass ball in his hand, an expensive-looking Rememberall, which unless he was very much mistaken, did not belong to him.

Harry approached, saw Draco now taunting an angry Ron Weasley. “Give it back, Malfoy!” Ron yelled.

“How about…no?” Malfoy said, sneering. “Why don’t I leave it for him to find, say, up a tree? Or maybe I ought to just hover over him and make him jump for it? Maybe he’ll end up like his loony parents, the clumsy lout.” There was some snickering from the Slytherins, while the majority of the students looked confused.

Harry felt something rear back in rage within him. He knew the story of the Longbottoms, a pair of talented and well-liked Aurors who had been attacked days after Voldemort’s defeat. Captured and tortured into insanity by the Lestranges and Barty Crouch, the son of a Ministry official. Daphne, a bridesmaid at Alice’s wedding, had taken the news hard, and Harry had finally asked about it after he read a reference to Frank Longbottom’s capture of Death Eater and Ministry spy Augustus Rookwood, very shortly before the attack. Neville, who survived the attack unharmed, lived with his grandmother Augusta, an old family friend of Daphne’s late husband. 

“ _You dare?”_ Harry hissed, drawing his wand, stalking towards Draco. “It’s bad enough that you’re a horrible excuse for a human yourself, but you might have the decency not to joke about a _war crime_.” Harry smiled nastily.  “Though I suppose it was a _family_ matter, wasn’t it?” 

Malfoy’s normally pale complexion went bright red, and Harry kept his wand at the ready, pondering what hex he might be able to get away with. Draco leapt onto a broom and sped off into the air. Visualizing what he wanted, Harry summoned his broom wandlessly, using the adrenaline pounding in his veins to tap into this uncommon ability without even really knowing he was doing it.

Ignoring the whispers, Harry mounted his broom and took to the skies, climbing and levelling out, his broom’s nose aimed right at Malfoy’s chest. The other boy looked stunned at Harry’s skill in the air.

“Long way down, isn’t it Malfoy?” Harry taunted. Then, as Malfoy opened his mouth to retort, Harry shot at him as fast as the rickety old broom would travel. Malfoy spun out of the way, and Harry spun around, grinning. “Care to try again?”

“You’ll get yours Potter,” he hissed angrily.

“Not before you. Give me the Rememberall and we’ll call it a day.”

Malfoy smirked, bringing back his arm. “Catch it if you can!” he yelled, then hurled the glass sphere in the direction of the castle. Harry shot after it, his eyes locking on and following the Rememberall’s trajectory. He pushed forward and dove low, outracing the glass sphere and catching it in his left hand as he went by. Swooping around, adrenaline still pounding in his veins, he looped back around. Malfoy was hovering a few feet off the ground, and not paying attention.

His mistake. Harry dove forward, and then pulled up and extended his legs. He collided with the blond-haired boy from the back and sent the Malfoy heir tumbling off his broom, landing face-first on the pitch. Harry landed and neatly dismounted, drawing his holly and phoenix feather wand, a hex on his lips. 

“Had enough, you bloody coward? That was for -“ 

“ _Mr. Potter!_ You will put that wand away this _instant!”_  

Harry turned around, genuine fear bubbling in his stomach. He had never seen Minerva McGonagall so enraged. He quickly complied with her order and backed away slowly as she stormed up to them. “Mr. Malfoy, are you well?” she didn't so much ask as demanded.

Draco looked like he was considering faking an injury, but grimaced and said. “I’m fine, Professor. But Potter…”

“I _saw_ what happened,” McGonagall said harshly. “Mr. Potter, with me, _now_.”

He glanced over and saw Hermione giving him a look of sheer terror. She thought he was about to be expelled, and she might well be right. Harry numbly followed his professor as she grasped his arm, leaving his broom where it lay. Whispers and snickers followed him.

He _could not believe_ how stupid, how impulsive, how… _Gryffindorish_ he had just been. What in Merlin’s name was he thinking? It was one thing to disobey Hooch and fly after his rival, another entirely to attack him with his back turned.

Harry felt a flood of shame. Not that Malfoy didn’t deserve what was coming to him, but that was…unacceptable. And now his recklessness might be about to cost him dearly indeed. As McGonagall led him through the courtyard up a staircase, a part of him, very small indeed, rejoiced in the possibility that his ordeal at Hogwarts was over. The rest of him was too horrified by his failure to care.

They reached what was almost certainly McGonagall’s office, though he had never been inside before. It was sparsely-furnished, with a few banners in Gryffindor colors, a heraldic plaque behind her desk between a pair of large windows which he could see overlooked the flying paddock, a number of heavily-laden bookcases, and a few pictures. McGonagall sat behind her desk, and gestured for him to sit. 

She took a few deep breaths. “Mr. Potter, if I am to be completely honest with you, you are a complete mystery to me. I was quite impressed the first time you came to Hogwarts, and while your Sorting was… _unexpected_ , I maintained some level of respect for you as both my student and as a young man, especially given your strong academic performance and lack of disciplinary violations not in some way related to Professor Snape."

She stiffened. "But what I just saw was absolutely _appalling._ Do you have any reason why I should not initiate your immediate expulsion, which is within my power as Deputy Headmistress?”

Harry looked at her dumbly, trying to find words. “Professor, I…I acted foolishly, I know that.”

“Mr. Potter, _that_ is an understatement. If not for what I must say was spectacular ability on that broom, you or Mr. Malfoy could have been seriously injured or killed.” She grimaced. “I must admit, though, that your catch was astounding, and were you in my House, a part of me might be wondering how I could get you on our House Quidditch Team.”

Harry almost laughed at the idea of Snape rewarding him for disobeying instructions, acting recklessly in a manner reminiscent of his father, and endangering the boy he had recently learned was Snape's godson. “I’m sorry, Professor. I have no excuse for my actions.” Then he realized he did have something. “Draco Malfoy said something nasty about the Longbottoms, and since my guardian was a close friend of theirs, it struck close to home.”

McGonagall had paled slightly, going completely still. “Go on, Mr. Potter. What did he say, precisely?”

Harry recounted the events, and Gryffindor’s Head of House looked torn between disbelief and incandescent rage. “It seems,” she said primly, “that I may have the wrong Slytherin first year in my office at the moment. But your actions, Mr. Potter, stand as charged.” She frowned. “What I would like to know is where this animosity between yourself and Mr. Malfoy has come from. Obviously, I suspect that family history has something to do with it. But I cannot recall such vicious conflict between a pair of first years in all my time here.”

“Draco’s been doing his best to ruin my life since I told him I didn’t want to be friends. On account of that family history you just mentioned,” Harry explained. 

McGonagall was quiet for a long moment, her earlier anger either subsiding or pushed to the back of her mind. “Mr. Potter, it has come to my attention that your experience at Hogwarts thus far has been far from ideal.” 

Harry couldn’t resist. “That’s one way of putting it.”

Now she glared at him. “I will not tolerate your rudeness, Mr. Potter. I suggest you affect a more polite manner if you expect me to show you sympathy.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, swallowing. Blimey, she was frightening at times like this.

“You have not been happy, then.”

“No, ma’am.”

“And Mr. Malfoy has been a source of this discontentment?”

“One of them.”

McGonagall frowned. “Mr. Potter, I would ask you to tell me what problems you have been experiencing, outside of those involving your Head of House, which I am aware of, and am attempting to address by giving you a chance to explain your circumstances." 

Harry explained the initial reaction to his Sorting, doing his best not to lay too much of the blame on the Gryffindors. In Minerva McGonagall, it seemed like he may have found a possible ally, and that was more valuable than anything in Gringotts at this very moment. The older woman listened intently, saying nothing.

Finally, he finished, and looked at her expectantly. He had left out a fair bit of his troubles, knowing that it would not do him any favours within Slytherin if he reported his Housemates to the Head of Gryffindor. “I see,” she said. “Mr. Potter, I’m afraid I cannot do a great deal for you at this time, but I assure you that I will endeavour to make a difference as soon as I can. If an opportunity arises, I may even bring this to Albus, although I suspect he is aware of some of your difficulties, quite possibly more so than I was. I would ask you to keep me informed of any serious incidents, so that the culprits may be identified and punished."

Harry decided not to tell her that he had no intention of doing any such thing while he was still friendless in Slytherin, and merely nodded. 

“I suppose this goes without saying, Mr. Potter, but you are not to be expelled. I have decided that your actions, serious as they may be, were the result of stress and poor judgment, and were preceded by considerable and intentional provocation. I will therefore let you off with a warning.”

Harry stiffened in surprise. “Thank you, Professor,” he got out.

She eyed him curiously. “You have nothing to thank me for, Mr. Potter. It is my _duty_ to attend to my students, and despite your House affiliation, I count you among them.”

Harry nodded and left, breathing massive sighs of relief. He felt something round and lumpy in his robe pocket, and found that Longbottom’s Rememberall was still there. It appeared he would have a reason to see Hermione again after all.

 

 

 

“How the bloody hell are you still alive, much less not expelled?” Malfoy demanded when he saw Harry sitting calmly, eating dinner.

“I have a way with words,” he replied evenly. “Professor McGonagall decided to let me off with a warning, after I had explained the context. You are just lucky she did not hear what _you_ said.” 

“ _McGonagall_ let you off?” Draco said in disbelief. He seemed completely lost for words.

“Yes, she did,” Harry replied. He rose. “Excuse me,” he said, shoving past Goyle, who was too surprised to stop him. Leaving his stunned Housemates in his wake, he made his way over to the Gryffindor table, which looked at him suspiciously, while Weasley looked downright murderous. Evidently he’d gotten the boy’s hopes up.. “Where’s Neville?” Harry asked, as unthreateningly as he could possible managed.

“Over here,” Neville said softly. He looked very nervous, but then again, that was hardly unusual. His right arm was still in a sling.

Harry walked over to him, withdrawing the Rememberall from his robes. “Sorry I didn’t give this back, it slipped my mind, ironically enough. It's valuable, keep a better eye on it, would you?” he said, handing the sphere back to the petrified boy. He turned and left, and was a few steps away when the whispers broke out. Exiting into the Entrance Hall, he found Hermione, who looked a bit worse for the wear. Her eyes were red and she was sniffling slightly.

Then she saw him, and stared in utter shock. 

“You’re still here?” she said, disbelief in her voice. “You weren’t expelled?”

Harry smiled bitterly. “It seems your Head of House believes in fairness, which puts her ahead of mine. So yes, I’m still here. For better or worse.” 

“I’m…I’m glad,” Hermione said quietly. “I wouldn’t have liked it if you were expelled for defending Neville. That was…a good thing you did. Well, some of it. The rest was really foolish and malicious,” she amended, looking cross. “You didn’t have to ram Malfoy.” 

“He had it coming,” Harry muttered darkly.

“I suppose,” she said, sounding unconvinced. “He said something about Neville’s parents. That’s what seemed to make you so upset.”

Harry nodded.

“What happened to them, exactly? I mean, if you want to tell me.” 

Harry thought for a long moment, then shook his head. “It’s not really my place,” he said quietly.

“Oh,” she replied, looking a bit embarrassed. “Well, that’s fair.”

A pair of Gryffindors walked by, eyeing them suspiciously, and Granger suddenly started, as if she had just realized who she was talking to. “I…I should probably go.”

Harry met her eyes. “Should you?”

She looked away. “I’m…I’m sorry Harry,” she said, running off into the Great Hall. He sighed, taking a small amount of comfort from the fact that she had called him by his first name.

Harry completed his homework and went to bed. It certainly could have been worse.

 

 

 

A week passed. Classes became a blur, nights marked only by completed assignments, occasional chats with Hermione and some of the friendlier Ravenclaws, and on very rare occasions, one of the Slytherins. When the weekend arrived, something pleasant happened.

Harry had not returned to flying lessons after the debacle with Draco, and so he was surprised when a hawk swooped down upon him at breakfast and dropped a small roll of parchment. Curious, he opened it. 

 

 _Mr. Potter,_

_Consider this confirmation that you may use the school brooms as you desire. Your actions were reprehensible, and if it were entirely up to me, I would refuse you permission to fly until I was satisfied you were not a menace to your fellow students. However, certain others have spoken to me on your behalf and explained your situation, and thus I have agreed to give you a pass in Flying. Please do not make me look foolish._

_Spread your wings,_

_Madam Hooch_

Harry felt something that had been a stranger to him for weeks – happiness. _Thank you Professor McGonagall_ , he thought silently.

Mercifully, Snape had not said anything about the incident with Malfoy, something that had made his rival more irritable than usual. Clearly, he had been expecting Harry to be expelled, and it seemed only inevitable before he complained to his father, who was on the Board of Governors, which Harry knew because Malfoy barely went five minutes without mentioning it. Dumbledore would probably try to shield him as long as he could, regardless.

Although...it _was_ possible, based on the fact that Malfoy wasn’t taunting him, that he was too embarrassed to admit what had happened. Harry had rather effectively humiliated him in front of most of their year, after all. If that was indeed the case, Draco was probably biding his time, and Harry had to be even more careful than usual.

When Daphne had told him about Hogwarts, she’d neglected to mention that _survival_  was as time consuming as any of the classes he was taking.

Saturday morning he was up early, bathed and dressed before most of the House had awoken, with the exception of a few students scattered about the Common Room, none of whom gave him more than a passing glance. Harry gathered up a pair of books on the last War to return to the Library.

He’d skimmed through them the previous evening, after they had lain ignored in his trunk for weeks. Unfortunately, his long-delayed examination of their contents revealed little he didn’t already know, teaching the same, relatively sanitized version of the war’s history, glossing over the early events of the war, focusing on the period between 1977 and 1981, ending with a dramatized portrayal of the increasing desperation leading to 31 October, 1981. Neither book even had a picture of the Potters. Harry almost preferred it that way. His blissful period of relative anonymity was over – just about everyone at Hogwarts knew him by sight, and the information about his scar had been reported enough that it was now common knowledge that Harry had survived Voldemort with only a lightning-bolt shaped cut.

Harry made his way onto the autumn mist-shrouded grounds, an emerald cloak wrapped around his body against the chill. The sun burned through the clouds, wreathing the castle in a soft golden haze. It was, truth be told, one of the most beautiful things Harry had ever seen, and it was a promising start to the day. Harry continued towards the Quidditch Pitch, which was empty, as expected, and entered the broom shed. He spied a mess of broomsticks in varying conditions of repair and cleanliness. Sighing, Harry started examining them all in turn, hoping to end up with something younger than he was. The best he could do was a slightly-newer-than-ancient Cleansweep Mark 2. The handle was frayed and splintered, and the tail bore witness to a student's accidental and sudden encounter with the ground. Using his wand and a few small cutting charms, Harry soon had it in respectable order. It wasn’t what he was used to, but it would serve his purposes.

Casting off his cloak, he stood at the edge of the Pitch. Ever since he’d learned how good his father had been, he had harboured some ambition of starting for Slytherin at some point in the future. He hoped that, regardless of his House, his father would have been proud of him for that. It was a moot point at the moment – only in extraordinary circumstances did first years ever play in games, although they were allowed to be part of reserve units. Not that Harry would seek that, not when he was so roundly disliked by his House. His best chances of maintaining health and (relative) happiness came with remaining as unnoticed as someone like him could possibly be.

Harry took in a deep lungful of chilly air, and mounted the battered old broom. Finding a comfortable position on the broom’s deteriorated Cushioning Charm, he kicked hard into the ground, and rose unsteadily skywards. It truly felt as though he had left his cares and troubles beneath him as he felt the wind rushing through his hair, buffeting his robes. He heard the howl of rushing air, sensed the feeling of near-weightlessness that was so dear to him. Harry leaned down, flattening himself against the broom, and willed it to fly faster. It responded jerkily, but as he started to get the hang of this particular broomstick’s foibles and quirks, it felt more and more like an extension of his own body.

Harry launched himself towards the lonely hoops on the far side of the pitch, turning into ever-tighter circles until he could weave in and out of the goals, leaving just inches between them and his body. He broke off, rocketing down the middle of the pitch, and imagined that he was carrying the Quaffle, dodging Bludgers and the other Chasers, driving toward the goal. Exhilarated, he mimed that very action, pulling back his arm as he approached and heaving the imaginary crimson sphere toward the centre post. As he turned back for another run, a shining silver object arced past him, and instinctively, he changed course. It was falling fast, faster than the Rememberall, and he had to push the old Cleansweep to the limit, feeling the wood under him straining as he dove. He redirected at the last moment, the knuckles of his left hand brushing the grass as his fingers closed round the silver shape. Skimming above the grass, he climbed, and then looked in confusion for the source of the object, which, as he examined it, was nothing more than a Silver Sickle. His gaze fell upon the last people he was expecting.

Professor Sinistra stood on the opposite end of the pitch, her arms crossed over her chest. Next to her was a gaping Severus Snape. Harry quickly came in for a landing, catching his breath as he tried to summon words. “Professors,” he got out at last.

Snape gave a look that was equal parts amusement and disgust, a combination that only he could pull off so well. “Potter. Professor Sinistra has made me aware of certain events in your flying lessons, which also account for your continuing absence without a formal pass. Which, I should add, makes what you were just doing very much against the rules.” He sneered. “Not that it would stop you, of course.” 

Harry rummaged in his robes for the note from Hooch. Predictably, he didn’t have it. “Professor, I assure you, I was given express permission from Madam Hooch.”

Snape met his eyes for a moment, and Harry felt something terribly familiar. Something in his mind. Something he had felt for years when Daphne attempted to calm him after nightmares, and something he now recognized from several of his Potions lessons.

The unmistakable touch of a Legilimens. While such an intrusion certainly upset him, it seemed in this case Snape intended to believe what he’d seen, as opposed to the occasions where Malfoy had sabotaged his Potion and Snape had refused to hear a word of it. _The slimy git knew._ Harry struggled to maintain his composure. He really ought to expect no better from Snape.

Harry coughed.

Snape eyed him curiously. “Got something in your throat, Potter?”

“No, sir,” Harry said. He was unable to keep the hostility out of his voice.

Snape glared at him. “Potter…”

Professor Sinistra came to his rescue. “Mr. Potter, as Professor Snape had intimated, I heard through Professor McGonagall and Madam Hooch about your flying lessons.”

“Professor McGonagall cleared me,” Harry said, trying to keep his voice steady.

Snape looked disgusted. “Enough of your complaining, Potter. What I came down here to investigate was how much of Minerva’s praise was nostalgic reminiscing about your loathsome father, and how much was a reflection of your own talent. You should return that Sickle to Professor Sinistra now. I daresay with the combined fortunes of Potter, Dressler, and O’Connor at your disposal, you can let this one go.” 

Looking down to conceal his glare, Harry held out his hand, and Sinistra graciously took it from him. “I played Chaser in my day, Mr. Potter. I was never anything special but I’ve got a bit of the arm left,” she said, smiling. “Though I must register my surprise that Madam Hooch allowed you anywhere near a broomstick after the incident in class, and I will have to ask you to retrieve that note certifying otherwise.” 

“You are too kind, Aurora,” Snape hissed. “Now, we have delayed enough. Potter, listen up: Slytherin’s Quidditch hopes are exceedingly dim this year, along with the average intellect of the team. Being the spawn of James Potter, you might improve our chances. Come with me.”  Turning to his colleague, he added pointedly, “Good day Professor Sinistra.”

“Severus. Mr. Potter,” she said, before walking off onto the Grounds.

“I would caution you to avoid looking upon Aurora as some sort of mentor, Potter," Snape said as Harry hurries to keep pace with his professor. "She is certainly competent, and wishes to be more than that, but she is also _unreliable_ , especially when it comes to her professor-pupil relationships.” 

Harry again wondered what Snape might have to do with that. 

“Potter, were you listening to a word I said? I am offering you a chance to not only escape punishment for attacking a student, but, perversely, to benefit from it. The irony is not lost on me, but my dislike of you pales in comparison to my horror if Gryffindor should win the Cup again. For a woman that has not played Quidditch since before I was born, Minerva is absolutely _insufferable_.”

“Yes sir,” he said, jerking to attention. “Where are we going, sir?” 

“You will see,” Snape replied. “Follow.” 

With a silent Harry in tow, Snape walked to the Transfiguration Corridor. Harry blinked in confusion. Did Snape intend to rub this news in McGonagall’s face? Before he’d played a game? Was this just another way to humiliate him? 

He was partially right. Snape rapped on the door to Professor McGonagall’s classroom, which given it was a Saturday morning, seemed rather odd. A few seconds later, Gryffindor’s Head of House leaned her head into the hallway. “Severus…Mr. Potter?” 

Snape ignored her question. “If you would not mind, I need to borrow Flint.” 

 _Flint?_ He thought that was the surname of Slytherin’s Quidditch captain. That, or Snape intended to use corporal punishment of a rather unusual and painful kind. He was right the first time.

“Severus, he is in detention, as you well know, since you saw fit to look for him here. I will not tolerate students sleeping in my class, and certainly not racial epithets.” 

Snape’s eyebrows rose. “I hadn’t heard about the last one.”

“He called Miss Noble a 'useless Mudblood,' if I remember correctly.”

Oh _great_ , Harry thought.

“What on earth do you need him for, Severus?” 

“This is an issue within Slytherin House,” Snape said firmly.

Professor McGonagall looked like she was about to say something rather rude, but refrained due to Harry’s presence. “Very well. Flint, did you hear that?”

She moved aside as a burly, square jawed boy with dark beady eyes and a pronounced overbite – who to no small extent resembled a troll – moved into the doorway. “Professor,” he said respectfully. He glared at Harry.

“Mr. Flint, I have found you a Seeker.”

“You have? I technically have one.”

“One you would rather you didn’t, if I understood correctly.”

“Higgs is rubbish, but he does have the spot.”

“I see. Would you like me to tell you what Mr. Potter has done to earn this recommendation?”

“Severus,” McGonagall’s irritated voice came forth. “I will not have you interrupting a disciplinary session in order to further your House’s Quidditch ambitions.”

Snape gave her a look of veiled contempt, and then looked over at Flint. “It is up to you, of course. The boy caught a Sickle at the end of a forty-foot dive without any warning, and before that, caught a Rememberall in similar circumstances. And then ploughed into Mr. Malfoy while remaining on his own broom.”

“Huh,” the burly boy said. Flint looked Harry over. “Skinny, but he’ll do.”

Harry blinked. “What about Higgs?”

“He’ll understand,” Flint said, shrugging. “If not, well, something can be arranged.” There was definitely a note of unpleasantness in his voice.

“Very well. Report to practice this afternoon, Potter.”

“ _Severus_ ,” McGonagall warned, standing behind Flint with her arms crossed.

“I apologize for intruding, Minerva. Come, Potter. And write your bloody essays, Flint.”

When the door was shut with perhaps more force than necessary, Snape rounded on Harry. “Do _not_ make the mistake of believing I will show any favouritism towards you in the future, Potter. But for once, I have found a use for you, and I find delicious irony in having you compete against your father’s Quidditch team. I expect to hear that you are working hard, and look forward a respectable performance at the first game, or I may reconsider my generosity.” 

“Yes, sir.”

“Off with you, Potter. I’ve wasted enough of my morning.”

 

 

Practice, such as it was, went fairly well. Harry _did_   seem to have made himself another enemy in dethroned Slytherin Seeker Terrence Higgs, but the boy was, well, not that bright, or talented, and or to his eye even particularly good at being mean. Harry had more to worry about with Flint, as the troll-like sixth year seemed intent on proving that Harry and just about every other member of the team was an entirely useless and talentless waste of space. 

He didn’t really get to know any of his new teammates, but he did learn names. Tom Derrick and Lucian Bole were the Beaters, a couple of three-year veterans with a serious mean-streak between the two of them. Harry was sure he was not imagining that they were aiming their Bludgers at the heads of their _own teammates_ in practice. 

The chasers were Flint, a third year named Adrian Pucey, who seemed enthusiastic and fairly talented, and Warwick Montague, who was pretty bulky for a Chaser, but had a good arm. Then they had Mallory Bletchley, the lanky foul-mouthed seventh year Keeper who had evidently grown her auburn hair out over the summer, as Flint finally forced her to tie it back, with much cursing and shouting from both sides. There was a history there, he gathered from Pucey. A history,  if rumour had it, that concluded in a bout of mutual infidelity where  _both_ had been found in the... _intimate company_ of two _different_ young ladies.

There were a few reserves – the sloth-like Trevor Warrington, a Chaser, his quiet but athletic fellow first year, Tracey Davis, who was apparently the back-up Keeper (there were, he had learned, _technically_ no rules forbidding first year _reserves_. Actually, the rule book said nothing at all about reserves.) 

And, of course, looking like he intended to murder Harry at first opportunity but had no idea how to go about doing it, there was Higgs.

Flint seemed satisfied with his performance, although he did make several suggestions that Harry needed to bulk up so that he would not be blown off-course in high winds. The other Chasers were lambasted, despite the fact that Flint wasn’t all that much better, and a lot of the poor performance had to do with some excellent goalkeeping by Bletchley (though her occasional failures were announced loudly and colourfully).

 

 

Harry tried to find Professor Sinistra afterwards, to thank her for her support, but her office was empty, and she did not appear at dinner. Harry ate alone, but was mostly left to himself. Well, until he wanted to leave, anyway.

“ _Potter_ ,” Malfoy hissed.

Harry turned, knowing for once exactly what this was about. “Yes, Draco?”

“Rumour has it that you’ve gotten yourself on the Quidditch team, despite nearly getting me killed the last time I saw you on a broom.” 

“For once, rumour would be right. I impressed Snape and the team was desperate for a half-decent Seeker.” He smiled thinly. “Also, you give me far too much credit. At best, I was trying to _wound_ you.” 

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed. “If I wanted to, I could tell my father, who would see you expelled in a heartbeat.”

Harry smiled thinly. “But you won’t, will you? Because you are embarrassed enough as it is.”

Malfoy laughed mirthlessly. “You’ll get yours, Potter. Trust me. Oh, and break a neck.”

“Thank you for your concern, Draco,” Harry replied evenly, as the blonde pureblood walked away. So _that_   secret was out. It was going to be an interesting week.

Harry wrote Daphne the next morning, focusing on his surprising but altogether welcome change of fortune, hoping that she would at least be supportive, even if she had never really liked Quidditch.  The next few days passed in a blur for him, a haze of classes, abuse from Snape and Malfoy, scattered conversations with Hermione and the Ravenclaws, and a fair bit of reading, along with some time testing out the school brooms, hoping to find one he felt comfortable with. It turned out he needn’t have bothered.

Daphne’s response came in the form of three screech owls, carrying a long, thin package, trailed by Hedwig. The package landed directly on Harry’s eggs, upsetting the plate and his goblet. He did a quick cleaning charm while Greengrass opened her mouth to complain about her pumpkin juice being knocked to the floor. Harry saw Nott shift his gaze somewhat in the direction of the package, while still keeping his face trained on Millicent Bulstrode, who was having an animated conversation with him. Harry smirked. It was no wonder he was so observant and yet unobtrusive. You needed a trained eye to catch when he was paying attention to you. 

Harry ripped open the envelope that Hedwig had dropped on his bacon, and read the letter quickly.

_Dearest Harry,_

_Congratulations on making the Quidditch team! While I am not thrilled about how you went about it, I must admit that I was great friends with Alice and Frank, and had they been insulted in such a manner in my presence I may not have been proud of my response either. I’m not thrilled about you flying around doing stunts on a broom, but the worst injury your dad ever suffered was a broken wrist in fourth year, so I will hope for the best. I’m glad that classes are going well, and I hope that your social situation may be slowly improving._

_Harry, I’ve thought a lot about this, but I’m not going to even consider withdrawing you until the Christmas Holiday; I know it has been difficult for you, and I am ashamed of the treatment you have received at the hands of the students and staff alike (and I suspect you are not telling me everything). Nonetheless, I feel that Hogwarts offers the finest magical education available, and if I cannot be watching over you, despite my misgivings about the man I cannot say that there are any I would trust more than Albus to see to your safety._

_I again recommend you seek out Rubeus, he was a friend of both of your parents and a very cheerful man. I would advise that you don’t eat anything he offers, or try to play with his pets, for your own safety._

_The package contains your newly purchased Nimbus 2000. I did make a promise, and with everything you have endured thus far, you deserve a little luxury. It’s a pretty fine piece of craftsmanship, from what I can tell. I hope it serves you well._

_I’m sure you will notice the engraving under the handle. I’m afraid I couldn’t quite help myself, but you are my son in every way possible, Harry._

 

_Love,_

_Daphne_

Harry finished the letter, smiling, and quickly folded it while checking to see if anyone was watching him. Nott was, but he was doing a pretty good job of hiding it. Their eyes met for a moment, and Harry smiled a little. Nott looked away, and finally began replying to Bulstrode’s long monologue. 

Excusing himself, Harry grabbed the package, slung his book bag over his shoulder, apologized to Greengrass for ruining her breakfast (she politely nodded, already eating more), and headed for the dungeons. When he got to the entrance, he was met by a _very_ strange sight: Ron Weasley and Draco Malfoy standing within twenty feet of each other, and _not_ hexing each other’s bits off.

Draco ran forward, a triumphant smirk on his face. Before Harry could stop him, he seized the package and felt it, smirking. “Broomstick. This is it for you, Potter, first years aren’t allowed them. Thought you could get around the rules, eh?” Even for Draco, the whole thing was a bit juvenile.

“Yeah,” Ron added, “you’re in big trouble now.” Ron’s enthusiasm, on the other hand, was entirely expected. Harry rolled his eyes. 

“What is going on here?” the silky voice of Severus Snape cut in.

“Potter’s been sent a broomstick,” Ron and Draco said at the same time.

Snape smirked. “A bit premature, perhaps, Potter?”

“I suppose so, sir. I just didn’t want to fly my first match on one of the school brooms. And put Slytherin at a disadvantage.”

“Reasonable enough. I suppose it would be from your guardian. What model is it?” Snape asked. Ron and Malfoy stood off to the side, identical expressions of horror dawning on their faces. Harry smirked.

“Yes, sir. We had an agreement that she would get me the newest model broom whenever I made the Quidditch team for the first time, as a way of…well, _honouring_ my father. It’s a Nimbus 2000.” The corners of Snape’s mouth curled into a grimace at the mention of James Potter, but Harry’s revelation brought a bit of satisfaction back into his expression.

“Ah, a good choice by Daphne, then. The best broom the Gryffindors have is Spinnet’s Cleansweep 8. Perhaps we will be repeating, after all.” Harry nodded. Snape's gaze turned to the other boys. “Now, what are you two doing here?” 

“Potter’s on the Quidditch team?” Ron asked in disbelief.

“Yes, Weasley. It is not the first time the first year prohibition has been lifted, nor will it be the last. He will be expected to win, of course, or the consequences will be dire.”

“That’s so unfair!” Ron blurted.

Snape gave a smirk that could be best described as conveying laughter. Though Harry doubted the man had laughed from mirth in his life. As was evidenced by his ability to show several different emotions by smirking once, a Slytherin trademark if there ever was one.

“Such is our pitiful existence. Anyway, what _were_ you doing here, Weasley? Harassing a fellow student? Five points from Gryffindor.” Ron purpled. “Now get out of my sight!”

“What about him?” Ron yelled, pointing at Malfoy.

“Draco is simply helping me deal with an intra-House issue. Five more points from Gryffindor.” Ron stomped off. Draco spun around, an expression of fury on his face. Harry went down to the dungeons to open his gift.

“Try not to break it, would you Potter?” Snape said as he walked away. Harry ignored him.

He went into the dormitory and jumped onto his bed. He ripped the paper off of the package and opened the box to expose a state-of-the-art broom. The Nimbus 2000 was polished and sleek and Harry couldn’t wait to try it out. His second practice would be tomorrow evening, in preparation for the first match of the season that weekend. Turning the Nimbus over, he spotted gold-lettered engraving reading ‘HJP-D’ that Daphne had referred to. He smiled, feeling the warmth of her love even so far away in the depths of the dungeons. Maybe she was right. Maybe it would all work out in the end. 

 

 

The next couple of days brought sporadic but half-hearted harassment by Slytherins that were outraged he’d been given a starting role for attacking one of their own (though more than a few seemed quite pleased with the development, it had to be said). This was in addition to the dirty looks and occasionally more robust actions from Gryffindors who wanted to ensure Harry wouldn’t make it to his first match, several of whom tried to trip him in the corridors. Interestingly, he caught the Weasley twins berating one of the boys who had tried. 

Then there was the abuse from Flint, who was running his team ragged, but the day of his first match finally dawned with him still in one piece. Harry awoke early and found a tremendous ball of anxiety in the pit of his stomach. Even a long bath failed to calm him down. He went to the Slytherin table, ignoring Malfoy’s taunts that he was going to fail, but still couldn’t eat anything. Predictably (or unpredictably), it was Nott who first broke through to him.

“You know, starving yourself isn’t a good way to get ready for the game,” he said without even looking in Harry’s direction.

“And what would you know about that?” Harry snapped.

“Nothing. I don’t play Quidditch, nor does anyone in my family. But I have basic knowledge of human needs, and eating is one of them.” He turned around, and began conversing with Blaise Zabini.

Harry managed to force some food into his stomach, and as he was preparing to leave, felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up into the eyes of Hermione Granger, who quickly pulled back her arm. “Hi, Hermione. How are you?”

“I’m…I’m well,” she said uncertainly. “I just,” she looked over her shoulder now. Harry saw a number of the Slytherins remaining glaring at her and him in turn. A Gryffindor and a Muggleborn, she was about as welcome here as dragon pox. “I wanted to wish you good luck,” she whispered at last, smiling slightly. 

Harry was a bit throttled by that. “I…thank you. Thank you, Hermione. That means a lot.”

She shrugged, smiled, and turned around, heading out of the Hall. Feeling a bit cheerier, Harry left alone and headed for the changing rooms. He found a set of personalized robes waiting for him, ‘POTTER’ emblazoned between the shoulders. He donned the green and silver robes for the first time, satisfied by the fit, and picked up his Nimbus. Then he sat and waited. A few minutes later, Flint walked in, his expression thunderous, and then stopped, looking amazed to see someone already there.

“Potter. Good, at least you understand the importance of getting here early,” he said mostly to himself. The other members of the team began to file in. Bole and Derrick, the Beaters, followed by Adrian Pucey. Then Montague joined him moments later. Bletchley arrived a few minutes after him. The Slytherin Keeper received a prompt chewing out from Flint, who appeared more aggravated than ever. Harry stayed silent, trying to keep his mind on the strategies he’d worked on in practice. 

Flint was insistent that they _had_ to have this game, putting aside the fact that it was  _the_ grudge match of the season. It was after he said something about leaving Lions bleeding on the pitch that Harry tuned him out.

Finally, game time arrived. 

The seven team members walked over to the entrance of the pitch, and waited for Lee Jordan, the Gryffindor, friend of the twins, and _extremely_ biased announcer, to finish introducing the Gryffindor team, which was being cheered wildly by most of the students, while boos echoed from the Slytherins overhead.

“AND NOW THE SLYTHERIN TEAM!” Jordan yelled into his magical microphone.

“TEAM CAPTAIN AND CHASER, MARCUS FLINT!”

“CHASER PUCEY! CHASER MONTAGUE! BEATER BOLE! BEATER DERRICK! KEEPER BLETCHLY!” The five Slytherins followed their leader out of the entrance and rose into the air, leaving Harry alone.

“AAAAAND SEEKER, HARRY POTTER!” On cue, Harry raced out of the entrance to the tunnel and mounted his broom. Also on cue, the Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, and Hufflepuffs broke out in resounding boos. Even some of the Slytherins were booing. Harry ignored them, grinning in defiance. For once he didn't mind being a bit hated.

“Team captains! Shake hands!” Madam Hooch, the referee, commanded to Flint and the burly Gryffindor fifth year, Oliver Wood, the Lions’ Keeper.

The two approached each other with determination, and shook to break each other’s fingers. They broke apart and mounted their brooms, with Wood heading back to his goal. Harry noted the other Gryffindor players he’d been told about. The three female Chasers, Johnson, Spinnett, and the second year Katie Bell, the Weasley brothers, who were both excellent Beaters, in addition to being able to read each other’s minds, and the new Seeker, a wiry second year named Cormac McLaggen .

“I want a nice, _clean_ game!” Madam Hooch yelled. Harry almost snorted. Fat chance; almost all the plays that Flint practiced were borderline illegal.

The Snitch was released, and disappeared from sight. Harry noted he was able to track it far longer than McLaggen . 

Madam Hooch blew her whistle, and the game began.

Katie Bell, despite being the second youngest player on the field, was off in a flash, the Quaffle underneath her arm. She dodged Bole’s first Bludger, and flipped the ball to Angelina Johnson, who relayed it backwards to Alicia Spinnett, who was cruising behind them. She flew at the goal, and Bletchley rose to block her, before the Gryffindor chucked the Quaffle with a no-look pass to Bell, who faked to the right before throwing the ball through the centre hoop, past a dazed Slytherin Keeper.

“…AND BELL SCORES! 10-0 GRYFFINDOR!”

Flint angrily grabbed the Quaffle and began a two-man charge with Pucey, while Montague trailed behind. Flint was so focused on ramming the ball down Wood’s throat that a Weasley Bludger hit him full on, nearly knocking him off his broom, jarring loose the Quaffle in the process. Johnson was there to catch it. She roared toward the Slytherin goal with Bell right behind her. 

Only Bletchley was in her way. Harry banked his broom to the right and shot straight at Angelina Johnson, who pulled up with a terrified look on her face. Harry shot past her, grazing her broom tails with his Quidditch robe, but carefully avoiding a collision, which would have drawn a penalty.

It worked perfectly, as Johnson had only just recovered when Derrick's hit Bludger crashed into her. She barely kept hold of the broom, and lost the Quaffle, which was recovered by Bletchley, who tossed it to Montague.

Lee Jordan was not such a fan of Harry’s manoeuvre, though.

“WHY OF ALL THE LOUSY, SLIMY-“ 

“ _Jordan!”_ McGonagall warned.

“Sorry, Professor. SO AFTER THAT  _BORDERLINE_  LEGAL MOVE OF POTTER'S, SLYTHERIN HAS THE QUAFFLE. PUCEY TO MONTAGUE TO FLINT SHOOT, SAVE-”

But Wood was dazed by the rapid movement, and the ball sailed through the hoop, tying the game.

Unfortunately for the Slytherins, that was the closest it would get to a Slytherin lead. The three Gryffindor Chasers were a well-oiled scoring machine, and soon the score was 90-20 Gryffindor. Harry began prowling up and down the pitch, searching for the Snitch. While he was spending his frustration productively, the same could not be said for his teammates.

In the course of half an hour, Gryffindor drew penalties for Bole throwing his bat at Spinnet’s head, Flint deliberately colliding with McLaggen, Bole and Derrick attacking Wood with Bludgers while the Quaffle was on the other side of the field, Flint inexplicably trying to steal Derrick's bat to enact revenge after a particularly flashy save by Wood, and Pucey ramming George Weasley for no reason at all. Forty-five minutes into the game, the Slytherins had rallied _somewhat_ , and now trailed only 140-60, mostly on penalty shots. Still, there was no sign of the Snitch, and if Harry did not find it soon, it would not matter.

One Gryffindor goal later, Harry spotted it. He took off with McLaggen in hot pursuit. Harry wove around the stands, tracking the movement of the golden blur as it dove, pulling up just in time to avoid a crash. McLaggen...wasn’t so fortunate, and ploughed into the ground on a bounce. But before Harry could push his advantage, one of the Weasleys batted a Bludger that barely missed his head, and then another directed at his leg. He lost sight of the Snitch, and banked away hard to avoid the twins’ well-executed scheme with their Seeker on the ground. Harry dodged two more Bludgers before McLaggen was airborne again. Left unmolested, the Slytherin Chasers scored twice, but the Weasleys twins knew their priorities.

With their Seeker back in the game, the Weasleys headed off in search of other prey, while Harry began prowling for the Snitch anew. He noticed McLaggen was following him, and decided to try something he’d read about before. It wasn’t a Wronski Feint, but it was damn close. 

He banked hard to the left and took off, trusting his tail to follow him, which he did. Harry dove toward the ground, and began weaving in and out, up and down, trying to complete the illusion of chasing the elusive Snitch. He then climbed high into the air, banked right around Derrick, and shot straight at the ground at the base of the Teachers' Boxes, before banking off to the left. At that moment, Harry spotted the actual Snitch near the Slytherin goalposts.

McLaggen did _not_ see the Snitch. All he saw was Harry. 

“-WAIT! THE SNITCH IS OVER THERE…CORMAC DON’T-“

Too late. The wiry boy realized his mistake and pulled up on his broom just in time to bounce off the ground again, this time crashing into the Gryffindor stands, ripping through a tapestry as he spun out of control. McLaggen smacked his head on the wooden superstructure and fell backwards to the ground in front of the Gryffindor stands, unconscious. Harry winced as he flew past to a chorus of outrage. He had not meant for _that_ to happen.

“WHY THE DIRTY! SLIMY! LITTLE SLYTHERIN BAS-“

 _“JORDAN!”_ McGonagall yelled, but this time he heard the genuine fury in her voice. Harry didn’t really care; no matter what the Gryffindor said, what he’d just done was perfectly legal. It was Cormac’s fault for following him so closely.

Harry took off after the Snitch he’d seen on the other side of the Pitch, dodging around a scrum involving five Chasers and three Beaters. He banked left to bring himself directly behind the Snitch, weaving and bobbing. As it took off towards the sky, he flew higher in hot pursuit. 

And then the Nimbus gave a sharp jerk, and Harry was nearly thrown off. He looked left and right for the Weasleys, but they were over on the other side of the pitch harassing Flint and Pucey. _So what had-_

Harry’s broom gave another, even more violent lurch, and then he was spun around and barely clinging on with one hand, balancing frantically atop his unruly Nimbus.

As his broom bucked again, Harry realized that if this kept up, he was going to fall, and from this height, he was going to die. Wrapping his knees around his bucking broom, he aimed for the ground, trying to lose as much altitude as he could before lost control.

But the broom refused to cooperate, instead rising higher in the air. In desperation, he pulled out his wand, and tried to cast a _Finite Incantatem,_ but as he did so- 

WHAM! A Bludger crashed into his back, and combined with a lurch from his broom, Harry finally lost the battle for control. His wand tumbled from his grasp, and he was catapulted off the Nimbus, flailing helplessly as he plummeted toward the pitch.

Harry saw the ground rushing up to meet him, and then felt jarring a impact and heard the ‘CRACK’ of broken bone, thereafter accompanied by agonizing pain.

His world went black.

 

 

Harry awoke slowly, and the first sensation he had was of lying on a warm, soft bed. He gently opened his eyes. The last remnants of a late evening sky shone through the west window and nearly blinded him. He hissed in pain and groped around for his glasses, found them lying next to his wand. He put the glasses on, and looked to the next bed to see Cormac McLaggen sitting up, watching him with undisguised curiosity.

“What I don’t get,” he began as soon as he was sure Harry was awake, “is that you are skilled enough to pull off a modified Wronski Feint and nearly get me killed, and yet you lose the game because you fall off your broom? I know getting hit by Weasley didn’t help much, but from what Wood was telling me, you were going to fall anyway. What gives?” 

Harry sat back and closed his eyes. “Somebody hexed my broom.”

The problem was that Harry’s modern racing broom had all manner of protections and anti-tampering charms on it, and it would take a very powerful and skilled wizard to overcome them. Probably none of the younger students, that was for sure.

Cormac frowned. “You really think someone was trying to jinx your broom?” He sounded very sceptical.

“I’m sure of it,” Harry said. “But I don’t understand how. That’s Dark magic, and exceptionally powerful Dark magic at that. Nothing a student could do.”

“I don’t know, maybe your broom was acting up,” McLaggen said, making it clear that he didn’t want to continue the discussion in the direction it was going.

Harry tried to stretch, and felt a sharp pain in his arm. “What the hell happened to me?” Harry asked.

“You fell off a broom, must have been thirty feet. Fractured arm, four broken ribs, two broken fingers and a concussion,” Madam Pomfrey supplied as she walked briskly over to him, carrying a bottle of potion. “Good to see you finally awake, I was starting to wonder.” She poured some potion into a goblet and forced it into Harry’s hands.

“How long have I been out?” Harry asked before downing the potion and making a face at the disgusting taste.

Madam Pomfrey grabbed the goblet out of his hands before pushing him firmly but gently back down onto the bed and fluffing his pillows. “Lie down,” she commanded, and Harry stopped struggling, “two days.”

Harry gaped at her. He glanced around to see if anyone had brought him his homework, but the space around his bed was empty. Harry noted that Cormac had several gifts on his bedpost and his books were stacked next to the bed. “Has anyone come by for a visit?” he asked hopefully.

“Once,” the mediwitch said sadly. “There was a Gryffindor, actually, with some other first years. But they had a bit of a row before they could stay for long, and I sent them away. By the way, you aren’t leaving for at least another day, so if you want, I’ll relay a request for books and such.” Harry nodded, though he was inside quite disappointed that _no one_ had even thought to bring him his work. He was pleased that Hermione had paid him a visit, however brief. 

“I’ll need practically my entire trunk,” Harry admitted. "Especially if I’m here for a while.”

“Fine. Mr. McLaggen ,” she said, feeling the boy’s forehead, then waving her wand up and down. “The skull fracture appears completely healed, and since we established earlier that you avoided brain damage I pronounce you cured. It’s the double period, so get your books and be off. If you feel anything at all: pain, nausea, dizziness, or memory loss, please return here at once. Mr. Potter, _lie_ _down_.”

Harry complied. He called over to Cormac, “Sorry about landing you in the Hospital Wing.”

Cormac blinked. “Why? I know the rules of Quidditch up and down, and you didn’t do anything illegal. It’s Quidditch. You’re pretty good, mate.”

Harry frowned. “So, with both Seekers out, who won?”

“Ah, yes, that. Well, it was a bit of an unusual circumstance. They ended up shooting penalties. Gryffindor won pretty handily.”

“No surprise there.”

McLaggen nodded, and gathered his things. 

Madam Pomfrey turned her attention to him. “Mr. Potter, should I try and find one of your classmates and get your trunk?”

Harry winced. “Um…could a House-elf do it? I can at least trust one of them not to tamper with my things.”

Madam Pomfrey looked surprised, but acquiesced. “Dappy?”

There was a CRACK, and a pink-skinned House-elf appeared. “Yes Madam Pomfrey, ma’am?”

Harry looked over at the elf. “Um…could you go to the first year Slytherin dormitories and get my trunk? There’s a password, it’s ‘Claw’s Clan.’”

Madam Pomfrey looked up. “What? A password? It’s not as though your bed is warded.”

Harry was silent.

“It is? How and better yet, why?”

“I was raised by Daphne Dressler,” he said by way of explanation. “And my roommates aren’t that fond of me.” Madam Pomfrey shook her head in dismay, muttering something darkly.

Harry lay back and closed his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, without Hermione there to set the (wrong) professor on fire, what exactly were you expecting would happen?


	7. Trouble with Trolls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halloween approaches, and danger lurks in every corner.

When Harry got out of the Hospital Wing a day and a half later, he found little had changed. His spill from his broom had become something of a joke among the Gryffindors, including but certainly not limited to Ron Weasley. Though, truth be told, his twin brothers appeared to get a little sick of it. Harry guessed they had seen a few too many friends fall off their brooms, especially after being hit by Bludgers. They might even have felt a bit guilty for hitting a helpless target.

Hermione looked disgusted with the whole thing, something that made Harry feel a bit better. She found him before Transfiguration and asked how he was feeling.

His broom at least had been recovered, though he was not sure by whom. There was no visible damage, and no magic on it that he could detect. Curiously, when he finally decided to ask Snape, appealing not as Harry Potter but as Slytherin's Seeker, his Head of House did not dismiss his theory as frenzied excuses for failure, but dutifully performed a charm which revealed no external magic. He didn’t mention the fall once in Potions, either.  

And whatever the Potion Master's reasons might have been, that was a good thing, because the stress, fatigue, and loneliness had the first year Slytherin close to snapping, which would surely have erased any momentary pity or traces of goodwill that his Head of House had for him.

The weeks wore on, and between the Quidditch injury and Flint's subsequent threats to boot him off the team, Harry was rapidly approaching his breaking point.

Threatening to tip the balance was the return of something else. Something that haunted him every time that Halloween began to draw close: his nightmares.

None was ever identical to any other, but the basic structure events remained the same.

Harry knew he hadn't actually the seen the events of 31 October 1981, but that didn't stop his mind from filling in the blanks.

 

_His mother and father knelt feebly before a tall, cloaked figure, begging for their lives._

_Practically dripping with malice, their assailant cruelly and heartlessly dispatched them, felling each with a jet of sickly light to the chest. The air smelled of ozone, and of death. Dark energies rippled through the small cottage, smothering the light, even the temperature yielding as it fell abruptly._

_Their murderer stood over him now, a defenceless baby lying in a wooden crib, strangely silent, perhaps futilely trying to understand the events that were happening around him. Destiny meant nothing to an infant._

_The murderer raised his wand anew, a twisted look of satisfaction etched into his features. He spoke the words, Harry was blinded by a green flash, and his eyes deafened by a rushing sound that drew closer and closer. A pain ripped through his forehead, and he cried out in helpless agony, crying for Mum, for Dad. For Auntie._

_Another scream tore through the air, a shriek of_ _anger and fear that could have come from nothing that deserved to be called human._

 

Harry sat up in bed, drenched in cold sweat, a scream caught in his throat. His heart was racing, his scar burned duly. Closing his eyes and taking in a shaky breath, he tried to calm himself. His body began to rebel, trying to expel whatever it was that was causing him such discomfort. Shaking badly, he unlocked the hangings on the third try with a muttered, "Lily Evans," and stepped to the ground. He staggered into the loo, his feet freezing on the cold dungeon floor.

 _At least Daphne wasn't on the floor with them this time,_ he thought. Though at least that had told him that it really was a dream. 

After relieving himself, he collapsed back into bed, and his sleep mercifully held no more dreams.

Awakening groggily, he took a long, hot shower, dressed and headed upstairs to the Great Hall. Taking a seat at the end of the Slytherin table, he tried to maintain whatever awareness he could. It wouldn't make things any better if he fell asleep in class.

From the conversation around him and a few strategic questions, Harry quickly discovered that one of the reasons that the school was laughing at his fall was that they believed he had tried some foolish stunt and so become a sitting duck before he was hit with the Bludger.

No one seemed concerned with a state-of-the-art broom jerking and jolting in an attempt to unseat its rider. This only added to Harry's mounting anxiety that he wasn't going to survive to see his twelfth birthday. He wanted to keep his promise to Daphne that he would remain until Christmas, a promise that he had made himself, desperately unwilling to admit defeat in his first year.

Malfoy had warned Harry a few days ago that if he lost another Quidditch match, he wouldn't be riding a broom again. Despite his best sense, those words filled him with fear and apprehension. He was not entirely sure that his teammates would fully have his back after his fall cost them the biggest game of the season.

Later, Hermione gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder, and they talked about their classwork and the weather and other minor things, but she seemed unwilling to ask what was the matter. Nonetheless, between such small shows of concern and occasional conversation, her presence in his life, erratic as it was, remained a comfort. Sinistra continued to be away from her office when he came calling, and hurried about during Astronomy, giving Harry an encouraging smile once in a while, but seeming very distracted. She did not ask for him to stay after class again. 

One night in late October, Harry lay wide-awake on his bed, staring into the darkness. His mind was racing, and despite the utter exhaustion he was feeling during the day, his body seemed to be tingling with energy. Harry felt like he was being swamped under by dark thoughts, and he knew one thing: he needed to get out.

Opening the curtains, he put on some slippers, threw his robes on over his dressing gown, and headed for the common room. However, somehow the great empty space still left Harry feeling trapped. Harry cast Silencing Charms on his feet, and decided to do something that had he been in a better state of mind, he would have known was quite foolish. Harry walked out of the hidden stone archway, ducked around to scan the hallway for observers, and finding none, set off.

Deciding that strolling right through the Entrance Hall was too risky, Harry opted for the hidden passageway he had discovered led to the 4th Floor corridor, emerging near the entrance to the library.

Ducking around a corner, listening intently for any signs of his Potions Master or Filch and his cat, he hurried, his footsteps as silent as he could manage, over to an innocent-looking section of wall. He tapped an innocuous spot with his wand, and with a quiet grating of stone against stone, a hidden door slid open, revealing a dimly lit passage and a stone spiral staircase. As the door closed behind him, Harry moved quickly up the stairs, a tiring climb from the dungeons to the fourth floor. He reached the exit, and tapping another stone, a slightly narrower door opened. Stepping through, he started for the library. It was silly, he knew, but a few minutes in the only place he ever felt at home in the whole castle might do him a lot of good.

As he walked down the corridor, he noticed a door slightly ajar, a mysterious, ethereal light emanating from within, drawing him closer. Glancing up and down the corridor, he stepped over the threshold.

He stood in a disused classroom, the desks shoved up against the walls. The sight of a towering mirror - nearly as tall as the ceiling - framed by beautiful relief decoration instantly commanded his attention. Above the reflective surface was an inscription: _Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi._

 _Latin?_ Harry wondered. But even his limited knowledge of that language told him this was something different.

Out of sheer curiosity more than anything else, Harry stepped in front of the mirror…and froze, his breath caught in his chest.

It was clear that this was no ordinary mirror. He gazed, open-mouthed, at the half-dozen figures that he saw reflected in the crystal surface. Two men, two women, and two children, all strikingly familiar. He turned around, thinking, _hoping_ just for a moment that what the mirror showed him was reality, but all that met his eyes was an empty classroom and a pile of desks at the back.

He turned back to the mirror, and to the figures that seemed to dwell within it. One was unmistakably himself. He appeared much as his did at the present time: dressed in black Hogwarts robes with a Slytherin crest, messy black hair, and vibrant green eyes framed by round glasses. But this Harry's forehead, visible just under his bangs, was unblemished, and his eyes were full of childish glee and innocence. He was beaming up at the two figures standing behind him, sparing an occasional glance at one of the other figures. His left arm was around the shoulders of a boy that Harry had never seen in his life.

Still, somehow Harry knew exactly who he was.

He was slightly taller than Harry, with a strong jaw and high cheekbones, short honey-blond hair, and pale blue eyes, full of innocence and mischief all at once. He was also Slytherin by the look of his own Hogwarts robes. His arm was looped affectionately around Harry's shoulders, though his attention was more frequently focused on the man and woman standing behind him.

The boy’s mother was beautiful, her flawless face still youthful and full of energy and vitality. She wore beautiful emerald green robes that brought out the colour of her grey-green eyes and contrasted well with her shoulder-length honey-blond hair. Her left hand was clasped in the hand of the man standing beside her, her right lying lovingly on her boy's shoulder, and her gaze, mostly shifting between her son and her husband, would occasionally drift to Harry and to the woman that stood behind him.

Her companion had the boyish features of perpetual youth, a kind, gentle smile, and hair of a neat brown that perfectly framed his face, along with a thin but elegant goatee. His eyes lay mostly fixed upon the boy who could only be his son, but he would exchange the occasional loving glance with his beloved wife.

Daphne and Edmund Dressler stood before him with the unnamed son that they never had the chance to bring into the world. A boy who was like a brother to Harry, the kind of companion he so longed for in his hours of loneliness. Someone his age who would accept him, would love him, would laugh and read with him.

His attention was inexorably drawn to the woman standing behind the mirror-Harry, a pale hand on his shoulder. She was of medium height and slender build, with beautiful auburn hair that ran down her back. Her eyes were an almond-shaped green, the same eyes that Harry saw every time he looked into the mirror. _Lily_. _Mum_.

The man beside her was taller than his wife, and had the same ever-messy, jet black hair that adorned the head of his son. His hazel eyes, framed by wire-frame glasses, were full of love and pride, and his hand was currently mussing up Harry's already messy hair, while his son gave a lighthearted scowl. Both father and son dissolved into laughter, while mother looked on with amusement, nudging Daphne to get her attention. _James._ _Dad_.

Harry watched, his eyes stinging with tears, as Daphne and Lily pulled their sons into a warm embrace, before James and Edmund picked up their sons, spun them in the air, and set them back down. The two boys pulled each other into a friendly hug.

Silent tears began to stream down Harry's face as the emotions of his entire stay at Hogwarts crashed into him, all at once. The floodgates opened, and Harry sat back down on the ground, hard, as he wept for the family he would never have.

 

 

Minerva McGonagall patrolled the corridors of Hogwarts after dark. It was not an enviable duty, but rarely a dull one when one considered the wide variety of ill-advised activities students engaged in out of the dormitories after curfew, from the amorous to the outright ill-advised. So far she hadn't caught anyone this term, though the year was young. Minerva boarded one of the moving staircases in the large hall that encompassed the central tower of the castle as it moved silently up to the fourth floor. It had taken a year or two, and the enchantments that acted on the staircases and doors - old as the castle itself - liked to change their patterns, but the Deputy Headmistress had a mental schedule of when and where they would be going. Occasionally they had to be adjusted, such as the case about ten years ago when an entire class of first years had ended up on the seventh floor repeatedly while they were looking for the third floor.

The dark corridors of the fourth floor, lined with wood panelling and countless magical portraits and paintings, was not usually a place that one found students at this time of night; after all, only the most desperate would sneak out after dark to visit the _Library_ , though Filch had caught a few in the Restricted Section in years past. There weren't any accessible broom cupboards for couples in this part of the castle either. Still, she began walking down the fourth floor corridor when her ears caught a faint sound, bringing her to a halt. It was coming from a partially open door, one that looked quite familiar. _Wasn't that where Albus put the…?_

Yes, it was.

She hurried over toward the door, and slowly stepped in the room, taking a deep breath and preparing to raise her voice. But her reprimand died in her throat as she gazed at the scene in the room; more specifically, at the lone figure sobbing quietly in front of the Mirror of Erised.

A breath caught in her throat as she recognized him. The small, sad figure before her was Harry Potter. The boy that, if she were honest, she hadn't really taken a liking to since the boy had been Sorted into Severus's house. And despite her residual resentment that his appalling behaviour had been rewarded with a spot on the Slytherin Quidditch team (though she had to admit she might very well have done the same), she recognized her attitude was quite inappropriate.

Harry Potter was, but for the occasional outburst or smart remark, a respectful and hard-working student. He was also a student with a great propensity for doing things he should not be doing and finding himself where he should not be found, but in that, she supposed, he was only following after his parents. It was in no small part because of her fondness for James and Lily that she had hoped to have their son in her House.

Minerva had never had children of her own, but rather preferred to think of the students of Hogwarts, for all the years she had been at this school, as her brood. And while she had determined that it was best to remain distant and strict in her relationships with her students, it did not mean she felt nothing for them. She recalled the conversation in her office not a month ago. While Harry had seemed unhappy, it had not really been cause for alarm. Well, outside of his antagonistic relationship with his Head of House, but she knew there was little to be done there. Snape was the man he was, and his post at the school was protected by his rare talents and the tacit trust held between him and the Headmaster.

She stepped slowly into the room, but her entrance went unnoticed by the first year before her. Instead, his attention was fixed on the mirror. Minerva was familiar with the properties of the Mirror of Erised, of course. And she felt a slight pain in her breast as it finally occurred to her that whatever the boy's deepest, most heartfelt wish happened to be, it was likely to be of great emotional power.

"Mr. Potter?" she asked quietly, trying in vain not to startle him.

The boy jerked violently and he spun round, eyes wide with fear and panic, his hand reaching into his robes. "Professor?" he gasped. Tears glistened on his face, and Minerva felt a faint maternal urge to go to the boy and pull him into an embrace. She resisted.

"Mr. Potter, as I am certain you are aware, it is well after hours, and you should be in your dormitory."

Harry hung his head in shame. "I…just needed to get out…" he mumbled.

Minerva sighed gently. "Are you well, Mr. Potter? Do you need to be taken to the Infirmary?" The boy certainly _looked_ unwell, she thought. He appeared pale, underfed, and sleep-deprived. She had heard some of the most awful rumours about him from some of her own Gryffindors, malicious speculation that she was inclined to dismiss. It seemed her instincts had been correct. Before her was no budding Dark wizard, but a rather ordinary homesick first year, albeit one with considerably more trauma in his past than the norm.

Harry shook his head with a frenzied desperation. "No, Professor…let me go back…please don't take points." He swallowed. "Detention's fine, just no points…"

Minerva thought about that, but said, "I _should_ take points, Mr. Potter. You _do_ know the rules. And I _should_ speak to your Head of House."

Harry stiffened at that, and her heart ached.  _Damn Severus_ , she thought.  _He's just a child._

"No…Professor, please don't," he begged weakly, looking little like the precocious if distant pupil she was used to seeing in her classes. She had noticed his haggard appearance the previous day, but passed it off as simple exhaustion, or perhaps a bad dream.

 _B_ _ut the stuff of_ Harry Potter's _nightmares about could hardly be considered ordinary for a boy his age, could they?_

"Very well," she said stiffly. "I will not report this to your Head of House, given the…nature of your relationship."

“and the points?” he asked.

Minerva regarded him. “Mr Potter, is there a particular reason that you would rather serve a detention than have a few points taken from your House?”

From her previous conversation, she knew Harry was not the most popular student in his House, though she figured his performance in Quidditch and his fame might have netted him some friends.

"The rest of my House doesn't like me," Harry explained, regaining his composure before her eyes. "I'm different," he said, as if it explained everything. "Taking points would make things worse."

Minerva understood what the boy was saying, and a part of her was absolutely _furious_ with Severus for allowing this kind of environment to be created, and _also_ with Albus for not pushing the Potions Master to be more proactive in making Slytherin...well, if not a welcoming House, than at least one in which a first year like Harry could _eventually_ feel at home. Certainly not one where younger students feared the ire of their housemates if they happened to lose a few points for Slytherin. 

"Am I to understand that you have few friends within your own House, even now?"

Harry nodded. It made sense, she thought. She had been foolish to assume that the fame of being the Boy-Who-Lived would be anything more than a liability in Slytherin.

For while Minerva firmly believed that all children were inherently good, and raised properly, would become rational adults, capable of kindness as well as cruelty (even if some were more predisposed to one than the other), just a look at the surnames of some of those in Harry's class year was a cause for concern. The sons and daughters of Death Eaters, _acquitted_ or not. Far from her to condemn eleven-year old children for the sins of their fathers and mothers, but nor could she entirely ignore such things.

"I don't have any outside of it, either. Well…maybe some of the Ravenclaws and...Hermione," he admitted.

"Miss Granger?" she asked, pleased by that revelation. The Muggleborn witch was a remarkably talented and driven girl, one of the best she had ever had the pleasure of teaching. She would be a good friend for an outcast like Harry.

"A bit," he said, hesitantly. “The Gryffindors usually give her a hard time if they find her talking to someone like me.”  

She frowned. “Someone like you?”

The look Harry gave her, eyes swollen red and all, conveyed an alarming amount of bitterness for one so young. “They call me a Dark wizard when they think I’m not listening.”

Why _,_ she asked herself, hadn't she noticed this sooner? Young Gryffindors could be as cruel and thoughtless as any children of that age, but she liked to think that it only went so far.

 _Because you are still disappointed that he isn't in_ your _House,_ the biting voice of her conscience reminded her. She suddenly felt quite ashamed. She took a deep breath; she would need to have a conversation with Albus. The situation with Severus was intolerable, and unless Harry found someone he could trust, he would continue to suffer.

"Harry," she said, deliberately using his first name, "On account of your situation, I will excuse your presence here. No points will be taken. But you must leave now, and not return."

Harry nodded, and pulled himself to his feet, swiping at his eyes. He turned, and with one look back at the mirror, he slowly walked away without another glance at her.

Minerva sighed deeply, closing her eyes as she tried to determine her next course of action. She desperately hoped the poor boy would not encounter Filch on the way back to the Dungeons. She gazed at the Mirror, and for an instant, saw the flash of an image of her own heart's desire. _Such things will never be_ , she reminded herself, and so she left, locking the door behind her.

 

 

 

Harry had every intention to follow Professor McGonagall's instructions. But just a few days later, he found that impossible. He was even more distracted and unfocused in his classes than before, and it seemed that every time he closed his eyes, he saw the image of the loving family he had never known. The emotions he had felt that night had returned tenfold. He _had_ to go back. He _had_ to see them again, even if they weren't real, because the feelings of relief and security and _love_ were real to him, and that was what mattered. He hardly bothered to seek out Hermione anymore – her half-hearted companionship was nothing compared to what he saw in the mirror.

And so he did. Every night for over a week, he snuck out of the Slytherin dormitory, unseen and unheard, and climbed up the hidden staircase to the fourth-floor corridor. Twice since McGonagall first caught him, the door had been locked, though he was undeterred. A simple  _Alohamora_  solved the problem. He wasn’t supposed to know the spell as a first year, but perhaps he had inherited a bit of his mother’s talent with Charms, because he performed it with ease.

And so he would slip through the door, closing it quietly behind him, and then drag one of the unused chairs from where it had been shoved against the wall, and sit there, gazing at his family, all of them, even those to whom he was not bound by blood. Seeing himself loved and protected evoked only happiness, contentment, joy, emotions he had scarcely felt since he came to Hogwarts. He would sit there and watch the family he might have had interact until his eyelids began to droop, when he would replace the chair, silently open the door, and sneak back down to the Slytherin dormitories. Then he would climb into his bed, where would only dream of his family. No nightmares disturbed his rest then. When he would awake, he would feel wistful and lonely, but somehow it still felt worth it, just for those precious few hours of bliss.

It was four days before Halloween, a night that probably had more significance to Harry than any other person in Hogwarts, that he was finally discovered again. Harry had just sat down, and was watching his father pat him on the shoulder and say something that made his reflection beam with pride, when a voice called out from behind him.

"Back again, Harry?"

Harry spun around, nearly falling off the chair, staring back to see who had found him. He saw Albus Dumbledore standing off near the desks at the back of the room, gazing at Harry with his eyes twinkling madly. He evidently saw something he did not like, as the twinkle seemed to fade and his expression became gravely concerned.

"Sir…I" Harry began weakly. He couldn't believe he hadn't seen Dumbledore - he _always_ looked to make sure he was alone.

"It's alright, Harry," the old man said kindly, approaching slowly. "You aren't in trouble. But I must ask: Why did you come back?"

He struggled to find the words.

 

 

Albus Dumbledore was disturbed by the look in the boy's eyes. The Mirror preyed most upon those filled with emptiness and despair, and he saw plenty of both within Harry Potter. The Mirror _had_ driven men mad before, including the man who had commissioned it from Goblin smiths. He had just lost his wife, and when he had spent his entire fortune and used all the magic he knew, just to get a glimpse of her again, he had slowly starved himself, uncaring about the rest of the world.

_If the Mirror has already begun to eat away at his sanity, the consequences will be dire for us all._

"I…I had to see them again…I had to…" the boy said quietly. Albus was not encouraged by that. There was true, irrational _fear_ there. He probed at the youth's mind with a gentle touch of his Legilimency, not trying to invade the boy's innermost thoughts, but to survey what was on the surface. Thoughts struck him at random, a whirlwind of fear, loneliness, despair, anger, and bitterness.

It was alarming. Harry indeed made easy prey for the Mirror's bewitching powers.

Gently bolstering the boy's own defences with his trained mental energies, Albus spoke again. "Harry, I know that it is difficult for you, but you _must_ break free of the mirror's hold. Do you know what this mirror is?"

Harry shook his head.

"It is called the Mirror of Erised. Do you know what it shows?"

" _I show not your face, but your heart's desire,"_   Harry said softly.

Dumbledore smiled. "Very good. What do you see, Harry?"

"I see…Lily, James, Daphne, Edmund, their…son, and…me," he said, in wonder. "Dad's ruffling my hair…he does that a lot. And he's proud of me…he doesn't care that I'm Slytherin. Daphne's son is Slytherin too…now Lily and Daphne are giving us a hug."

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Dumbledore smiled. "Harry, you do know, my boy, that what you see can never happen? There is no magic that can reawaken the dead, truly restore them to life, as they once were. It is beyond our capabilities, as it should be. The dead must be allowed to lie in peace, while the living mourn and move on, in the hopes that one day they will be reunited."

Harry's smiled didn't fade. "I know. But watching them makes me feel better than I have since I left her."

Dumbledore gently probed the boy's mind again, trying to brush aside the impulsive feelings that had led Harry to this point. "The Mirror is a very powerful magical object. Men have gone mad, wasting away as they wondered whether what they saw was real, or even possible. You must break the hold it has over you. Only one of those you see is still alive. Remember your mother, your father, Edmund, and the Dressler boy, but focus on what you have."

Harry spun around, fury in his eyes. "I have _nothing_ ," he spat. "What I _have_ is an ocean away…"

The corners of his eyes glistened with tears.

Albus pondered this gravely. Minerva had informed him of her encounter with Harry here, and so he had lain in wait for several nights at different times, but only on this occasion had his visit coincided with Harry's. "Harry, I understand that your situation is difficult, and I wish there was more that I could do. I have spoken to Professor Snape, but he is quite obstinate on this matter. But I do think you exaggerate, do you not?"

"No, _sir_ ," the boy ground out.

"I see." Albus began to suspect that the Mirror was affecting Harry's behaviour and thoughts more than he knew. None of the precious few friends that the boy had, that Albus had seen with his own eyes, could possibly measure up to the vision in the Mirror. "Harry, has Daphne mentioned Hagrid in the course of your correspondence?"

"I don't think he likes me very well. I'm different then my parents, _this_ ," he said, pointing to the badge on his breast, "is some kind of affront to their memories." He smiled bitterly. "I was told that all of the Houses were respectable, that I would find my place wherever I was sorted." He laughed, a bitter, harsh sound that should not have come from one so young.

Albus was concerned by what was before him. The parallels between Tom Riddle and Harry Potter were unsettling, and the boy's Sorting had done little to assuage his worries. Though Harry did not have the loveless childhood or manipulative nature of his old pupil, each concealed their volatile nature behind a cold emotionless mask. And the bitterness, the anger that he sensed in Harry also seemed uncomfortably familiar.

 _I must write to Daphne_. _We cannot risk losing the boy to the Darkness at this stage. Not with what is at stake._

Reluctantly, Albus pushed further into Harry's thoughts, layering his words with a mild mental compulsion. It was, _surely_ , for his own good.

"Harry, you _must_ not return to this Mirror. It will be moved tomorrow, and I want you to _swear_ to me that you will not go looking for it again." Dumbledore hadn't actually planned to move the mirror for quite a while, as the defences on the stone were not yet fully completed. He would find a place for it in the castle less accessible to vulnerable children. 

And what he ultimately planned for the Mirror ought to be close to foolproof, if his calculations were correct. It would take some tremendously advanced spell work, though.

The boy glared at him. " _Fine_ ," he hissed.

" _Harry!"_ Albus said, slightly louder. The boy stopped, and his anger vanished, replaced by shame and a touch of fear. "Please, swear it."

"I swear I won't," he said in an honest, but dead sounding voice. Then he walked out the door slowly, leaving his Headmaster staring after him, shaking his head. Albus conjured a large white sheet, and flung it over the mirror, then he locked the door and warded it. His curiosity with regards to young Harry had already had negative consequences. What a fool he was, exposing Harry to it, because he hoped that somehow, he might come to better understand the ward of Daphne Dressler.

_I am growing old, and I am forgetting what it is to be a child._

_I am truly sorry, Harry._

 

 

Unfortunately for the Boy-Who-Lived, with an end to his nightly visits to the Mirror of Erised came the return of the nightmares. For the next few days, it became routine that he awoke suddenly at four o'clock in the morning, drenched in cold sweat, feeling like he'd run a marathon. Harry's work in class was finally suffering from his lack of sleep, as his marks slipped to just above Acceptable. He missed the Mirror and what he saw in its reflection with a fierce desperation. He even went searching for it the night before Halloween, but the corridor seemed to have shifted, the room holding the mirror vanishing as if it were never there to begin with.

To make matter worse, the day after Dumbledore had discovered him with the mirror, he had forgotten to reinforce the Silencing Charms around his bed. He'd woken up screaming, awoken his entire dormitory, and been slugged twice in the stomach by Goyle (on Malfoy's orders, of course). He was still sore.

And so exhausted, wanting nothing more than to go back to his life before Hogwarts, before all of the isolation and the loneliness, Harry finally decided to go down to Hagrid's hut, to see if the man might behave more favourably in a face-to-face conversation. Of course, he didn't actually know _where_ to find the Groundskeeper, and he didn't like the idea of wandering around on his own for too long.

He searched for anyone he knew that was both out of class and might have knowledge of the grounds. Unfortunately, he spotted only a pair of redheads. A pair of redheads who had been sporadically springing pranks on Harry most of the year, though the worst thing they involved was dumping a bucket of lake water on his head as he entered the Great Hall, and he was hardly their only target; indeed, if he was not mistaken, he was spared more often than not. Hermione Granger had showed him a spell to siphon off water later that day, before she had lost her nerve and left him alone in the library. The twins were furtively hiding in an alcove, speaking in hushed tones, looking over some kind of battered piece of parchment. Harry guessed they were plotting their next stunt. _Well, here goes nothing…_

"Fred, George!" Harry called over.

The twins looked up, and their eyes narrowed. "What do you want, Potter?" Fred asked. George quickly shoved the parchment into his robes.

Harry took a deep breath, and tried to make his voice as earnest and innocent as he could. "Do you know how to get down to Hagrid's?"

"What’s it to you?" George asked, a bit of hostility in his voice.

"You’d best not be looking to cause him trouble, Potter.” Fred warned, his hand slipping into his robes.

Harry shook his head firmly. "Definitely not. I just want to talk to him," he said, trying not to let his impatience show.

"About what?" Fred asked, coming closer.

"None of your business," Harry snapped, finally losing his temper. "Where does he live? You can hex me if I do _anything_! Just tell me!"

"Whoa, don't get your knickers in a twist, Potter!" George replied, looking a bit more at ease. "Know that bridge directly on a line from the main entrance?"

Harry nodded.

"Yeah, just keep going down, there's a path. Can't miss it."

"No trouble, remember?" Fred added.

"I remember," Harry said, turning to go. "Thank you."

"Whatever for, Potter?" Fred asked, turning away. George gave him an odd smile. Either he was marked for death, or the other Weasley twin was actually trying to encourage him. It was truly impossible to tell with those two.

Harry trudged down a muddy path on a rainy Wednesday afternoon. At last he caught sight of the home of the Hogwarts Gamekeeper. The small, two-room hut had smoke coming out of a chimney amidst a thatched roof and was surrounded by several different pens for roosters, pigs, cows, and other less conventional animals. Harry saw a few owls perched on logs near the pumpkin patch. He walked up the steps, and knocked twice on the door. There was an excited barking from inside, along with a grunted, "Back, Fang, back."

Hagrid pulled the door open, and his eyes narrowed when he saw a Slytherin standing there. Even when he recognized Harry, he didn't immediately move to let him in. “’Ar-Potter. Do you need sommat?"

"Just to talk to you," Harry said, letting the desperation he was feeling seep into his voice. He stood there, waiting.

Something seemed to click in the large man's mind, and he stood aside. "C'mon in, then. I've got the kettle on."

Harry walked into the cabin and stood aside so that Hagrid could pass him. Hagrid wandered over to a very large chair and sat down. Harry took a seat on a stool near the fire. Fang wandered over to him and gave a contented growl as Harry absently scratched the boarhound behind the ears.

"Well if Fang likes yeh, yeh can't be that bad," Hagrid said. Harry didn't respond. "So why are yeh down 'ere Potter?"

"No 'Arry' this time?" Harry asked, still not meeting the large man's eyes.

"What d'yeh want?" he said gruffly, evidently believing that Harry was mocking him.

"Like I said outside, to talk with you," Harry said, meeting Hagrid's eyes for the first time.

"Now why would yeh wanna talk ter poor ole' me?" Hagrid asked sarcastically.

Harry's temper flared. "Would you rather I leave? Do you think I'm just a no-good, slimy, Slytherin insult to my parents' memories too?"

Hagrid seemed taken aback. "S'not like that. I just…I hear things, yeh know…"

"Lies. You've heard vicious lies and rumours spread by gits like Weasley who have been making my life hell because I wear a different bloody badge!" Harry yelled, his frustration boiling over.

Hagrid seemed ashamed. "Awfully sorry, Harry," he said quietly. "Seems like yeh've been havin' a rough go of it."

"Quite," Harry snapped, then softened his tone, "Sorry Hagrid, it's just that no one has given me a fair chance. Most of the Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, and Hufflepuffs either hate me or are scared of me because of my badge, and the Slytherins hate me because of my past. It's…difficult."

There was real sympathy in the large man's eyes, and Harry regretted not visiting sooner. "I can imagine. No really, t'wasn't easy fer me either, when I was 'ere. I'm really sorry, 'arry. So did someone tell yeh ter come here?"

Harry nodded. "Daphne and Professor McGonagall. They both though you were someone I ought to reach out to. It's not like I have loads of people to talk with anyway."

Hagrid looked genuinely perplexed by that. "Don't'yeh have any friends?"

Harry gave a barking laugh. "You know, you are the third person to ask me that exact question in the past week." Harry suddenly had a hunch he wanted to explore. "Has Hermione been around here?"

Hagrid's eyes narrowed. "Why do you want ter know?"

Harry sighed, "Just asking. I don't mean anything by it, trust me."

Hagrid nodded, his expression softening. "She's been comin' ‘round, crying and such. Don't think she's got many friends either." He stiffened. "You're not gonna make fun of 'er fer that, right?"

"I've done more than my share of crying over the last week," Harry said softly.

Hagrid looked crestfallen. "Maybe you two should try ter get together."

Harry glanced up at him. "What does Hermione think I'm doing?"

Hagrid blew out a breath. "She's confused by yeh. Thought yeh wanted help with yer schoolwork, but she's not sure what yeh want now. She's mentioned yeh a lot, come ter think of it."

"That's nice," he said. "I wish she could believe that I just want her to be my friend, and nothing else."

Hagrid nodded. "I understand, 'arry." He paused, searching for words, but didn't seem to find them. "That's frustratin', that is."

"Yeah," Harry sighed.

They chatted for a little while longer. Hagrid went on about the nifflers he was hoping to get a hold of, and some bloke from the Isle of Man that was trying to create new magical creatures by unconventional and quite possibly illegal cross breeding. Harry had just finished his tea when Hagrid glanced up at the battered clock on the wall. "Don't mean te kick yeh out, or sommat, but yeh've got ter be gettin' back now. Don't wanna be late fer dinner!"

Harry smiled weakly, and then got up to leave.

Hagrid gestured around his hut, smiling broadly. "Yer welcome to come back anytime, yeh know." He frowned. "Awful sorry fer treatin' yeh so rotten. 've bad memories of Slytherins from my day. Shoulda known better than to think so poorly of yeh."

Harry nodded and left, his heart feeling just a little bit lighter.

 

 

Despite Hagrid's kind words, the nightmares resumed with a vengeance that night, the eve of Halloween. Tonight was special, thought. Daphne had joined his parents, her eyes empty and lifeless like theirs.

Harry slept very little that night, spending most of the time lying on his back, staring into the darkness, trying to slow his racing heart with measured, shaky breaths. He finally managed sleep after an hour of rolling around, but fell what felt like almost instantly into a nightmare. Exhausted, but still awake, Harry threw on a dressing gown, grabbed a book, and went to the freezing cold common room to read.

Classes that day were like all the others. He did as little work as he could get away with, as he simply could not find focus or motivation. He could barely read the blackboards, and lost fifteen points from Slytherin for melting Nott's cauldron. The boy commented that he wouldn't let Harry partner with him until he'd gotten a good night's sleep. It might have been the first time that Snape had actually been justified taking points, not that it made the glares and whispered threats sent in his direction any less menacing. He repeatedly missed his beetle in Transfiguration when trying to transform it into a button, and ended up crushing the insect with his wand tip. McGonagall pulled him aside after class and again asked him if he wanted to go to the Hospital Wing, but Harry said he was fine, even though a blind troll ought to know he was far from it.

After lunch, the afternoon class was cancelled because Professor Spout had taken ill. Harry was walking through the halls of the castle, trying to think of something other than the nightmares. As he approached the Charms corridor, the bell rang, and the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff first year Charms Class got out. Harry was about to turn away, not wanting to give Hermione the impression he was stalking her, when he heard familiar voices.

It sounded like Weasley was yelling at Hermione, or at least talking loudly about her. There was a loud sniffle, and Hermione tore through the crowd past them, and down the stairs where Harry was standing. Harry saw she had tears in her eyes, and was likely going to the toilet to have a good cry. He glared at Weasley as he passed.

"What are you doing here, Potter?" Ron demanded.

"Just passing by," Harry responded truthfully.

Ron scoffed. "Like a Slytherin ever does that. C'mon Seamus." The sandy-haired boy eyed him darkly, and Harry leaned into the wall, unable to motivate himself to move further. He stood there for several minutes.

"Are you alright, my boy?" Flitwick asked, coming out of his classroom.

Harry glanced up. "Bad memories," he responded.

Flitwick sighed. "Yes, I suppose today would do that to you. Well, the Halloween Feast should cheer you up, right?" he said hopefully.

Harry shook his head. "I'm not going." Then he walked away, and headed for the library.

Harry arrived just as all the other students were leaving to go to the feast. Harry wandered over to the _Duelling and Combat_ section, which contained very few books as most tomes on the subject contained information on the Dark Arts and were kept in the Restricted Section. Harry picked out a few of the remaining books. He had been doing some reading and found two spells he wanted to work on. The _Reducto_ Blasting Curse and the _Percutio_ Striking Curse. If he had time, he wanted to research more powerful Shielding Spells. He'd become proficient with the standard _Protego_ , but he knew the spell could be modified to be more powerful, and that other such spells existed, though they might be too complicated for an eleven-year old to cast.

Harry glanced around to be sure that no one was watching him, and then carried his books over to one of the armchairs where Hermione frequently sat. He saw Madam Pince come around the corner, levitating books back to their places on the shelves. She eyed him suspiciously. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be at the Halloween Feast?"

Harry shrugged. "Just wanted to do some reading. Not very hungry."

Madam Pince nodded, examining his choice of material. "Very well, keep quiet and no practicing those spells in here. It makes noise and you might damage the books."

Harry nodded vaguely and opened the copy of _A Beginner's Guide to Duelling and Defence._ Flipping to the index, he found the section labelled 'Blasting Curse.'

_**Blasting Hex/Curse** _

_Incantation: Re-duc-to_

_The effects of this curse vary based upon the target and the power of the spell. The curse only affects solid objects. The most common effect is causing physical damage to the target. WARNING: This spell can be lethal when used improperly._

Harry spent a great deal of time reading over the details and history of the spell before trying his hand at the wand movements. He was confident he'd be able to get it with a bit of practice; it was just a quick downward motion, that could be modified by rotating the wrist ever so slightly. He moved onto the Striking Curse.

Harry spent over an hour reading that book, reading up on both spells before re-reading the sections and taking some notes. He began to think about going down to the Slytherin dorms when Madam Pince's voice cut in. "I'm going down to get myself a bite to eat, so the library is closing for now. If you want to check out those books, bring them over here." Harry handed her the book he was reading and she checked it out while he put the others back.

As soon as he stepped out of the library, fatigue rolled over him like a great wave. Harry waited until Madam Pince was out of sight before tapping his wand on an innocent-looking section of wall, opening the staircase to the dungeons. Harry had gone down a few flight of stairs when he noticed an absolutely _awful_ stench of something, coming from behind a wooden door he had never noticed before.

 _A Weasley prank gone wrong_?

Then Harry heard a horribly familiar scream.

With only the slightest hesitation, Harry threw open the mysterious door, and rushed out into a dimly lit corridor. He drew his wand, searching for the source of the disturbance – and stopped when he saw himself looking at the back of a massive mountain troll. It was stooped over beneath the ceiling, with arms as thick as Hagrid's legs, its small head contrasting almost comically with its hulking, muscular frame. Covered in sores and warts, it wore only a filthy loincloth, and gripped a wooden club the size of a small train carriage.

Through the creature's legs, inside in the girl's toilet, he saw Hermione, her red-rimmed eyes widened in terror, backed in a wall. The troll growled and raised its club, and she held up her hands before her as if to ward off the coming blow.

Harry reacted without thinking. Raising his wand and focusing on what he had just learned, he barked, " _Percutio!"_ A purple beam of light struck the troll in the back, and while the hide was far too thick for the weak effort to cause it any pain, the troll stopped drawing back its club, and slowly, dumbly, turned around to face its attacker.

Harry was frozen in place, incriminating wand extended, trying to muster words for another incantation, and pondering the monumental scope of the danger he now found himself in.

The troll reared back to strike. Harry dove to the side, landing hard and rolling just in time to avoid being crushed by the impact of the club, which shattered the ancient flagstones upon impact. Harry ducked and the next blow passed just a foot over his crouched form. He took a deep breath and yelled as loudly as he could, "HERMIONE! GO AND GET HELP!"

But the Muggleborn girl just stood there uselessly, petrified by fear. Harry realized it was up to him to delay the beast before help could arrive. He couldn't beat the troll on his own; even with the magic he now knew he wasn't strong enough to break through the troll's hide – if only he could get that club away from it, he might have a chance. Harry rolled away from another blow, Seeker reflexes taking over. The corridor shook with the impact.

He stopped for a moment to incant the Blasting Curse, his wand aimed at the troll's feet. That was his first, and last, mistake.

The club came out of the corner of Harry's eye and slammed into his right side. He was vaguely aware of the sickening 'crunch' as he was lifted off the ground and slammed viciously into the corridor wall. He heard at least one cracking sound before his senses were overwhelmed. It didn’t hurt as much as it should, he thought dully.  He tried to get up, fumbling for his wand, but his stupid legs wouldn’t work, and he felt the weight of unconsciousness descending upon him. His right arm was completely numb. He looked up, and the snarling troll filled the entire corridor. It roared.

 _I wish I could have seen Daphne again_.

His ears were pierced by a horrified shriek as the troll raised its club for a killing blow.

" _STUPEFY!"_ a half-dozen voices shouted. The red bolts combined into one solid stream of magical energy and slammed into the back of the troll's neck. Six spells did what one could not, and the monster collapsed forward, the head landing at Harry's feet, where he lay gasping in pain in what he was vaguely aware was growing pool of his own blood. His vision was failing, but in the moments before he lost consciousness he thought could make out the horrified faces of several professors before it all became a blur. He looked over to see Hermione leaning against a wall for support. She was safe, at least.

" _Harry!"_ she gasped. That seemed to break the spell holding the rest of the people in the corridor. The professors raced towards him, moving around and over the unconscious troll.

Just then, Snape hobbled into the corridor, limping badly. "What is going on here?" His eyes fell upon Harry. _"Potter!_ " he growled, as if this was somehow his fault.

McGonagall rounded on him. " _Enough_ , Severus! The boy is badly hurt!" She conjured a stretcher and Harry felt the sensation of weightlessness as Flitwick levitated him onto it. The brief flicker of pain that Harry felt when he was set down was still enough to cause him to whimper. His arm felt like it was slowly catching fire. The adrenaline faded, leaving with a dull agony burning where bone had broken and sinew had torn.

His Head of House came closer, though Harry could barely make out what he was saying, besides, "…foolish boy…in Merlin's… were you _doing, Potter?"_

"I didn't know," Harry mumbled, "just…in library." His eyelids grew heavy, and he knew no more.

 

 

Albus Dumbledore looked over the battered eleven-year old, taking in the extent of his injuries with growing alarm. At least one bone stuck out of Harry’s robes near the right elbow, which was bent at an unnatural angle against his chest. It was something of a miracle the boy was still breathing. "We must get him to Madam Pomfrey. Minerva? Filius?" The two nodded and hurried for the Hospital Wing, pulling Harry's floating stretcher. Filius cast rudimentary Healing Charms to stop the flow of blood and numb the boy's pain. The other first year present began to run after them.

"Miss Granger, are you injured?" Dumbledore asked, knowing that answer, but seeking another.

Hermione shook her head, her eyes fixated on the now unconscious boy. "No, but I have to go with him!" she said breathlessly. "He saved my life!"

"Miss Granger, I must insist-" McGonagall began, stopping as she let Filius guide the stretcher onward, but the girl would have none of it.

"Please, let me go with him! I won't be a bother!"

Minerva sighed and relented, "Alright, come along then, we have to hurry."

When they were gone, Albus sent Pomona and Aurora off to check on the students, and called over to his Potions master. "Severus?"

"Yes, Headmaster," he replied icily.

"What have you to report?" His Potions Master was limping, and what might have been blood was smeared on his dark robes.

The younger man sneered. " _Someone_ tried to test the Stone's defences. He was wearing a cloak so I couldn't identify him, but I have my suspicions. Hagrid's bloody _mongrel_ nearly killed me," Snape spat, as if the worst possible death he could imagine was being consumed by an extremely rare Cerberus.

Albus merely nodded, refusing to rise to Severus' implicit taunts. "I see. I suppose that we were to inquire, we would find that Quirinus recovered from his sudden lack of consciousness and was lost in the confusion of the Great Hall?"

Severus shook his head. "I don't know exactly, but my Mark has burnt more than once in his presence." He glared at Albus. "How can you let this go on, Headmaster? He is obviously in league with the Dark Lord!"

"I fear it is too late for poor Quirinus, Severus," Dumbledore said sadly. Though his Potions Master implied otherwise, he had given this a great deal of thought. "But I am concerned that moving before we understand what has happened to him could be dangerous, both for him and the students. He has, as yet, done them no harm."

Severus raised an eyebrow. "You know as well as I his affinity with trolls. Does nearly killing the Boy-Who-Lived not count as 'harm'?"

Dumbledore was silent. "I must say, his role in this incident is deeply suspicious. But I _must_ know more before I act. Lord Voldemort can strike in many ways. You know that as well as I. We are not yet ready to confront this danger."

It was possible that Quirrell was being possessed from afar, or something along those lines. Tom did not seem to be in the castle, or if he was, he was weak enough that he passed entirely unnoticed. Albus preferred to believe that the wards of Hogwarts were not failing him, but it was possible. Anything was possible. Which led to his dilemma. In his younger years, he would have confronted Quirrell as soon as he sensed something was amiss. But his rash and reckless actions had done great harm in the past, both to him and those under his care, and he was wary of falling into his old pupil's traps.

Slytherin's Head of House scoffed. "Don't expect _me_ to clean this up when it explodes in your face."

Dumbledore chuckled, despite his worry. "I would expect nothing of the sort, only a reminder that you were right all along."

Severus made another sceptical noise at that.

"Goodnight Severus. I do suggest you have someone look at that wound. Not Poppy, as she might recognize the cause, and I'd rather that certain things remain known only to us. Argus has a bit of medical experience; I suspect he could be of some assistance."

Severus looked physically ill at _that_ suggestion, but held his tongue. Albus cared greatly for the troubled man, but he would not tolerate his deep prejudices. "Very well, I'll see the Squib tomorrow. Goodnight, Headmaster."

 

  

"How _is_ he?" Hermione asked anxiously as Madam Pomfrey emerged from the emergency ward. The mediwitch shook her head, washing the boy's blood off her hands and clothing with a spell.

"Not good, I’m afraid. Quite a bit worse than his Qudditch accident. Broken bones galore, deep bruising, damaged musculature. His right elbow is completely ruined and will need to be regrown, and he went into shock before they got him here. He'll _probably_ survive the night, after which the recovery can begin. A _troll_! A bloody _troll_ , can you believe this madness?!" the matron swore. Hermione felt a cold sweat break out on her forehead.

"What do you mean, _probably_?" Hermione demanded. "He's not going to die, is he? Please say he's going to be alright… _"_ she whimpered.

The mediwitch sighed. "He's in bad shape, Miss Granger, but my professional opinion is that he'll recover." She straightened. "What _are_ you doing here anyway?"

McGonagall, standing silently behind her, answered. "She is leaving to go back to her dormitory."

Hermione shook her head sharply. "No! I want to stay with Harry! He saved my life, I want to thank him when he wakes up!" She _couldn't_ leave her… _friend_ here. _Yes, he is a friend, and_ _I'll never forgive myself if he doesn't make it._

The mediwitch shook her head. "That won't be for a while, I'm afraid. I'll be keeping him under for a few days at least so his body can start to heal. Elbows are particularly tricky." Madam Pomfrey said, pouring a potion out of a bottle and into a goblet.

Madam Pomfrey tipped Harry's head back, opened his mouth, and poured a potion down his throat. "Blood-Restorative," she said, answering their unspoken questions.

"Poppy, perhaps Miss Granger should…" Minerva began, mindful of the state of her favourite student.

"Absolutely not, Minnie," Pomfrey said, absently brushing back the hair on her patient's sweaty forehead, revealing the famous scar. Just as quickly, she covered it back up, before walking over to the potions cabinet again. "She'll accomplish nothing here but get in the way. Sorry dear, but that's the reality of it," she said, getting another potion out and checking her watch.

"Alright then. Miss Granger?"

Hermione tore her eyes from the unconscious form of the boy to whom she owed her life. "Alright," she said miserably.

The two exited the Hospital Wing. As they ascended on one of the moving staircases, Professor McGonagall spoke. "I wasn't aware you were so close to Mr. Potter, Miss Granger."

Shame rushed through her as she stumbled over her words. "I…he saved my life. And…I think…he's been trying to befriend me, to get closer to me, and…and I wouldn't let him,” she said miserably.

Her Head of House paused, her expression unreadable. "I see. And he persisted in his efforts?"

Hermione hung her head, unable to meet Professor McGonagall’s eyes. "Yes, I…I think he was as lonely as I was, and I was one of the only people to ever be nice to him."

_And I should have been so much kinder, damn it! You fool, he nearly died for you and you couldn’t stop running away from him every opportunity you got._

"I know that was the case. He told me as much."

"He told _you?"_ Hermione said incredulously, the older woman’s words breaking through. _How…_ "But-but you're the Head of Gryffindor House. Why would he talk about things like that with you?" She almost asked why Harry hadn’t spoken to Professor Snape, then instantly realized how daft an idea that would have been. She still had nightmares about being rendered mute.

"The particulars of our conversation aren't up for discussion," her Head of House replied firmly. "However, the fact remains that Mr. Potter has been struggling to find friends since the day he arrived. I believe that he particularly wished to become closer to you."

_He did, oh God, he really did. He didn’t want help with his homework or…to take advantage of me or any of that nonsense the other girls went on about. He was just lonely._

" _He said that!_ He told me that! And I ignored him _!_ God I'm so _awful!"_ Hermione whispered.

Professor McGonagall reached out for her, but she pulled away. "It's alright, Miss Granger. If-"

"No! It's _all_ my fault, if I had just listened to him and been his friend, neither of us would have been there! He wouldn't be hurt!" Hermione cried hysterically, stopping as she buried her face in her hands.

Her Head of House touched her shoulder gently. "I am sure that it will be alright, Miss Granger. Should you two become friends, I am certain that he will forgive you."

"Alright," she said, sniffling. "I'll find my way back, Professor." They had reached the seventh floor landing.

"Very well, Miss Granger. If you so desire, you may visit Mr. Potter tomorrow morning."

If _he's still alive_! Hermione thought hysterically.

She entered the Dormitory to find that the energy from the feast hadn't faded that much. Students were sitting in small groups, still eating and talking loudly. Some of the prefects, including Percy Weasley, were trying to control the growing chaos, but were for the most part failing miserably. Part of it was because Percy's twin brothers, Fred and George, appeared to have distributed some odd items that were causing all kinds of havoc. A student was abruptly transformed into a large canary to a chorus of laughter.

Hermione, her heart heavy and her mind racing, wandered over toward the girls' dormitories. Ron Weasley, who was talking loudly about the troll with Neville Longbottom, Dean Thomas, and Seamus Finnegan, was sitting on the bottom stair of the staircase leading to the girls' dorms. The discussion centred on what the troll would have done to some of the 'slimy Slytherins.' When Harry's name was mentioned, she nearly lost it. _How can they talk about him like that?_

"Oi, Granger!" Weasley called over. "Didn't see you at the feast, was kinda worried about you. Are you alright? Where were you just now?"

 _Worried about_ me? _It was_ his _fault I was down there, the absolute prat!_ "None of _your_ business, Ronald," she snapped.

Then Dean spoke up. "Hey, Hermione, is that… _blood?"_ Hermione looked down and blanched. Her sleeve was wet with Harry's blood, though she wasn't sure how that had happened. She had run over to him as he was being levitated out, so maybe then?

"Yes…" she replied weakly.

"Wait, are you...?".

"It's not mine," she admitted weakly. "Can you _move_? You _are_ blocking the stairs?"

"Not _yours_? Then _whose_ is it?" Ron asked quietly, not moving.

"It's Harry's…Now please get out of my way!"

"Why is _Harry Potter's_ blood on _your_ robes?" Ron demanded.

"Because he saved my life and got badly hurt by the troll! Happy now? It's what you _wanted_ , wasn't it?" She shoved Ron roughly to the side and ran into the dormitories. She felt the tears streaming from her eyes, and let out a great sob as she buried her face in her pillow, shaking.

 

 

Floo communication was only so effective at conveying facial expressions – after all, the head that appeared in the fire of the receiving fireplace was magically manifested, and formed out of dancing emerald flames. But Albus was all too aware of just how _livid_ Daphne Dressler was at that moment.

"You cannot be _serious,_ Albus! A troll _!_ A bloody _troll_? How could you have let this _happen?_ What the hell is the staff of Hogwarts good for if they can't protect their own students?"

Albus winced at the scarred woman's fury. Perhaps he should have anticipated this after all. Harry was as good as a son to her.

She inhaled heavily. "Albus, I want to come there right now."

Albus shook his head. "You cannot, Daphne, you know the rules."

" _What_? Is Harry lying unconscious in the Hospital Wing not considered an _emergency circumstance_?'" Daphne raged. "I want to see my son  _now_!" Albus realized he was correct based upon Daphne's choice of language. _She is so very protective of the boy._

Albus was no stranger to keeping secrets, but in this case, it was becoming apparent that his odds of avoiding bodily harm from the Grey Maiden were plummeting each day that he kept quiet what he knew of Harry's destiny. Imperfect as Prophecies were, his importance and that of the prediction had been proved beyond any doubt on this same night, ten years ago.

It might also, he realized, distract her from Harry's current plight. He felt guilty about that, but the last thing he needed was an emotional and enraged Grey Maiden stalking through the corridors of the castle. Not when things were so delicate. When Daphne was like this, she was not known for subtlety. It was for the best if she were kept at arm's length, for now.

"Daphne," he said calmly. "These events had reminded me of something that I have neglected to tell you, due to…past circumstances. Something concerning the events of Halloween, ten years ago."

"What is it, Albus?" she asked coldly. Dumbledore didn't answer at first. "Tell me now," she demanded, a flicker of fear in her voice.

Albus sighed, gathering his own confused thoughts. "Daphne, what you are not aware of is that before Harry's birth, a Prophecy was given by our very own Sybil Trelawney…"

Daphne scoffed. "You would take anything that fraud says seriously?"

He carried on. "In this case, yes. While Sybil is not Cassandra, there is a reason that I have kept her in my employ. For though she may not know it, she is more valuable to Lord Voldemort than anything else. Because she holds the key to his immortality."

Daphne was getting impatient. "What does any of that have to do with Harry?"

Albus took a deep breath, and recited the Prophecy from memory.

_…THE ONE WITH THE POWER TO VANQUISH THE DARK LORD APPROACHES…BORN TO THOSE WHO HAVE THRICE DEFIED HIM…BORN AS THE SEVENTH MONTH DIES…AND THE DARK LORD SHALL MARK HIM AS HIS EQUAL, BUT HE WILL HAVE POWER THE DARK LORD KNOWS NOT…AND EITHER MUST DIE AT THE HAND OF THE OTHER…FOR NEITHER CAN LIVE WHILE THE OTHER SURVIVES…_

The fiery simulacrum of Daphne was taking deep, shaky breaths. "That can't be Harry. It just can't. You have to be mistaken."

Albus sighed. "Daphne, the scar upon his forehead is undoubtedly the 'mark' referred to, a rune of unknown power and importance, but definitive evidence of the truth of the Prophecy. For Lord Voldemort chose him, rather than the other possibility, Neville Longbottom…"

Daphne perked up. "Alice and Frank's son?"

"Indeed. But it is certain that he is not the Child of Prophecy. Lord Voldemort chose the one most like himself; he chose the half-blood over the pureblood." He noticed her close her eyes slowly, and her image shivered in the flames. "Are you alright Daphne?"

"Am I _alright?_ " she replied mockingly. "No Albus. I…I don't know how to feel at the moment." Her voice was rough with tears. " _Why Harry? Why did it_ have _to be Harry?"_ she mumbled into her hands.

"Daphne, this battle is several years away at the least. Lord Voldemort remains without mortal form. The Prophecy strongly suggests that…"

"Yes, I understand that. Of course I do!" Daphne snapped, looking indignant. "But Albus, he's a _boy_ , he cannot have such a weight placed on his shoulders. He'd have no _hope_ of a childhood. But what can we do, Albus? What can _I_ do?"

Albus pitied the Grey Maiden at that moment. "We can only prepare him as much as possible, without depriving him of the joys of youth. However, I fear his destiny may interfere with our plans. He cannot be kept safe or innocent for very long."

Daphne started. "Voldemort knows the Prophecy?"

Albus shook his head. "He knows only what his spy told him, the first section, concerning the identity of his challenger. He knows that the child that could defeat him was born at the end of July. That is why he went to kill Harry on that night."

"Who was this spy?" Daphne demanded.

Albus kept his expression neutral, but instantly regretted his indiscretion. Of course she would want to know the identity of the one whose information led to the death of James and Lily, leaving Harry an orphan. "I cannot say, Daphne."

"You know," she said matter-of-factly. "You know, he or she is still alive, and you are protecting them. Because you know that as soon as I find out, I _will_ kill them, Azkaban be damned."

Albus gave a weak smile. "Right on all counts, my dear Daphne. You were always brilliant."

The woman huffed indignantly. "I was the best Auror of my generation for a reason, Albus. Attending only a few months of Auror Academy before being thrown onto the front lines isn't standard practice."

"Indeed, it is not." He twiddled his thumbs nervously. "Would you like to visit Harry when he awakes?"

"Yes," she said through the tears, sniffling slightly. "I would very much like to." She was silent for a moment. "Thank you for telling me Albus. I had to know…"

"It is for the best, I believe. I should be going now, a troll needs to be disposed of. Goodnight, Daphne. I will take care of him as best I can, you have my word."

 

 

"Goodnight, Albus," Daphne said weakly. The Hogwarts Headmaster's head vanished, and Daphne stood there silently, staring into the fire. Shaking, she weakly walked over to her chair and collapsed, burying her head in her hands.

Then she wept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that happened. 
> 
> As you can probably gather, this will be the catalyst that finally breaks through the Gryffindor/Slytherin hang-ups of this Harry and Hermione's budding friendship. It's also a reminder, like Harry falling off his broom, that he is in much greater peril when he is isolated and alone. 
> 
> In terms of the incident with the troll itself, well, recall what McGonagall said about the odds of encountering one as a First Year and living to tell the tale.


	8. Secrets Uncovered

Hermione Granger abruptly sat up from the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall during lunch, and began to gather her things. Ron tapped her on the shoulder, and with a mouth full of food, asked, “Wer ou goin’ ‘ione?”

She scowled at him. “Oh, _honestly_ , Ron. Didn’t your mother ever tell you that was disgusting?”

Ron swallowed, looking a bit contrite. “Sorry…So where _are_ you going?” He hunkered down, and said more quietly, “You’ve been running off quite a bit, and you’re never in the library.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Why, have you checked?”

Ron had the decency to blush. “Uh…we’ve just been looking out for you.”

Hermione huffed indignantly. “It’s not _my_ problem if you fail your classes, Ron. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to visit a friend.”

She got up to leave, but Ron grabbed her arm. She glared at him.

“Visit? Friend?” Ron asked, confused. “What friend?”

She took a deep breath. “Harry Potter.”

Ron’s mouth dropped open. “ _What?_ He’s a...a _Slytherin!”_ he whispered. “Why-”

Hermione cut him off. “I don’t need to explain, Ronald,” she said in the bossiest voice she could muster. Now let me go.”

The grip of the redheaded boy went slack, and Hermione pulled her arm free. She gathered her things and walked out of the Great Hall, leaving behind a number of thoroughly confused Gryffindor first years.

As Hermione carefully boarded one of the moving staircases that she knew would take her to the first floor of the Infirmary tower, her mind was ablaze with worry and guilt.

Harry had been unconscious for almost two days now, and while Madam Pomfrey assured her that he was going to live, and that his long rest was in fact part of her treatment plan, it was less clear when he would wake. She had visited him at every opportunity; her miserable conscience would allow nothing less. Last night, she’d even had a nightmare where Harry had been killed in front of her, as she stood frozen, unable to move, speak, or even cry out. She had been shaking for over an hour before Lavender invited her to get breakfast with her and Parvati. Hermione passed off her anxiety and fatigue as homesickness, which her kind if banal roommate seemed to understand well.

But she knew all too well her nightmares had only been a manifestation of the guilt and fear she felt even now. She was appalled by her powerlessness during and after the incident with the troll. That Harry’s intervention had ended badly hardly mattered; he had tried, and maybe if she had given him her help, they could have stopped the troll together, and Harry would not have hurt nearly so badly, if at all.

 _That_ was irrational and improbable, she recognized, but what ate at her is that she would never know for sure, because she had done _nothing_.

_I don’t deserve to be a Gryffindor. Harry’s braver than I am. The Hat was right; I should be a Ravenclaw…_

It also tore at her that she had been so cold to Harry in the past, suspicious of his friendship, looking for ulterior motives that simply weren’t there, and judging Harry’s expressions of frustration and bitterness as completely under his control, as if an eleven-year old boy would never be ruled by his emotions. Her preconceptions now shattered, her mind began to make connections that explained so much of his behavior, and she only felt more ashamed.

 _Harry ate alone. Harry barely ate_ anything _, come to think of it. His own Head of House treats him horribly, in class and outside, worse than all the other Slytherins…_

_How could I have been so blind?_

She had reached the Hospital Wing. She crossed the threshold, and a suspicious Madam Pomfrey peered out of her office. “Oh, it’s you again,” she said, her voice softening somewhat. “Take a seat if you will. It’s your duty to get to class on time.”

“Has there been any improvement?” Hermione asked hopefully.

Madam Pomfrey nodded. “He’ll be awake soon, and he’ll make a full recovery. Most importantly, I was able to save his arm, though it might be stiff for a while…and those bruises aren’t going to heal easily. The ribs will also be sore, even once the bones have knitted.”

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. She had been worried that even magical medicine might not have been able to save Harry’s right arm after it had been pulverized by the troll’s club. She politely thanked the matron and went to see her… _friend_ , she supposed.

Taking a seat in the chair she’d positioned at the boy’s bedside, she pulled out her Transfiguration notes and textbook, intending to review a bit before the next class. There were some details of object animation that she was particularly keen to learn more about.

Hermione smiled wistfully at the occupant of the bed. “I’ve got fifteen minutes before class, so now would be a nice time to wake up, Harry.” Chuckling a bit at her silliness, she found the page she was looking for, and began to scan the introduction.

There was a groan from beside her, and a hoarse voice said, “…c’mon Daph…just a bit longer…”

The book fell from Hermione’s lap. “ _Harry?”_

One very tired looking green eye opened, and then another. His brow furrowed in confusion, and he scrambled for his glasses on the bedside table. Hermione helped push them over his nose, then stood in rapt attention over him as he fought his way back to full awareness.

Her Slytherin saviour blinked repeatedly. “Hermione?”

She nodded. “I’m here, Harry.” Remembering herself, she called over to Madam Pomfrey.

The mediwitch came bustling out of her office with a tray of potions, her eyes tight and face tense. “What exactly am I going to do with you, Mr. Potter? Is one near-death experience not enough for you?” The lightness of her voice belied the underlying concern.

“Dunno. Trouble seems to find me,” Harry said weakly.

“Drink these,” the mediwitch said, “all of them. Hurry up!”

Harry downed the potions one by one, and made a face. “Do Healing Potions have to taste so awful?”

“It’s a matter of degree, of course, but significant flavour enhancers would in most cases ruin the potion or at least dilute it severely. I’ll get you a glass of water,” Madam Pomfrey said. She walked away, muttering to herself about injury-prone students.

Hermione took a deep breath and began speaking very quickly. “Harry, I’m so sorry for treating you as I did. It was truly awful and I’m so ashamed and feel so foolish that I didn’t believe you when I should have and I understand if you don’t want to be friends with me after what I’ve done, but I’m lonely too and I would _love_ to be your friend and…I really made a mess of things.”

Harry chuckled weakly. “Slow down, Hermione, I don’t blame you. I’m the one who attacked a troll.”

“But you did that to save me, didn’t you? And I wouldn’t have been in the girls’ bathroom crying if I had actually listened to you and been your friend, instead of spending so much time around Ronald and those other boys.”

Harry groaned and closed his eyes against the light. “I forgive you, Hermione. And I _do_ want to be your friend.”

“Oh,” Hermione said. She had expected a great deal more resistance. “Oh. That’s nice…I mean, that’s wonderful, I would love that.” She was now feeling _very_ flustered. “Thank you.”

Harry nodded slightly, meeting her gaze with brilliant green eyes, his voice oddly calm. “I’m not going say no just because you haven’t been as kind as you could have been. You’ve been nicer to me than most, and I don’t really have any other friends.”

“I suppose,” she admitted. “But I still…”

“Hermione,” Harry said, his voice stronger than it had been since he awoke. “Leave it.” He sighed. “Can’t we just be happy that we’ve found each other? I know I am.”

“Sure,” she said, grinning reflexively. _A friend_. _A_ real _friend of her own_. It had been an incredibly complicated and frankly _dreadful_ path leading up to this moment, but she could not help but be incredibly happy that things had turned out as they had. _He’ll be a good friend_ , she thought happily.

Harry smiled back at her, the first genuine smile she’d seen from him for months. “I’m glad you came to see me.”

“Of course I did,” she replied defensively. “I wasn’t going to leave you up here all on your own.”

“Madam Pomfrey was keeping an eye on me,” he pointed out.

“Well, I _wanted_ to be here for you,” she replied huffily.

Harry just grinned, the joy in his expression simply dazzling.

Hermione beamed back, and then returned to business. “So, you have unfortunately missed several classes, and I suppose you hadn’t done any of your homework for the weekend when you were hurt…that means you have a great deal of catching up to do. I will help, obviously. When you are at your best, you are one of the best wizards in our class. Since I got you into this hole, it’s only fair that I help pull you out of it…with limitations, of course, but I don’t really think I need to worry about you copying my work.”

Harry shook his head slightly, and she took that a sign to continue. “Wonderful. Well, I can start by getting you the homework for today’s classes, and ask about the previous assignments. You will need your books, of course, and quills and ink and parchment. I wonder…”

“I’ve got it covered,” he assured her.

“Alright then.” As if on cue, the morning bell sounded through the corridors of the castle. “Well, I don’t want to be late for class, so I’ll have to go. But I’m so happy you are awake, and I’ll come see you when I’m finished.”

She turned to go, pulling the strap of her bag over her shoulder, when she felt a hand grab weakly at her wrist. Harry looked back at her with something akin to awe. “Thank you, Hermione.”

“Um…you’re welcome. Honestly, you shouldn’t be thanking _me_ , I’m only doing what I should have been doing from the outset, which is taking an interest in your welfare.”

“Nonetheless…don’t you have a class to be getting to?” he asked playfully.

She scowled slightly. “I was just getting to leaving.” Her expression softened, and she took Harry’s hand in her own. “Goodbye, Harry.”

“Goodbye, Hermione. See you later.”

She was smiling brightly until she found herself facing a tall woman in midnight blue robes, her scarred face marking her as instantly recognizable. She looked more than a little harried.

 _She_ is _his guardian, of course. Why wouldn’t she be worried?_

Daphne Dressler looked her over appraisingly with her sharp grey-green eyes. The Grey Maiden’s gaze was more than a little unnerving. “You must be Hermione Granger.”

A little shocked at that, Hermione started. “Oh, it’s alright, I’ve heard quite a bit about you. Good things, don’t worry. You’re a talented witch, by the sounds of things. Harry’s mum was a Muggleborn too, and one of the best witches I’ve ever known. It sounds like you are right on the same track.”

“Thank you,” she breathed, a bit overwhelmed by the praise. She knew her marks were very good, but there was still so much she _didn’t_ know, and she was afraid she would never catch up with the more tutored pureblood students.

“Don’t mention it,” the older woman said gently. Hermione was not sure, but thought she might have seen a hint of hurt in Dressler’s eyes as she spoke. Her mind made the connection to Harry’s mother, and she suddenly felt even more uncomfortable. “If you don’t mind, Hermione, I’d like to see how Harry is doing.”

“Oh! Of course. Sorry!” she said, stepping aside. Daphne gave her a sad smile before stepping past her into the Hospital Wing. Hermione stood there for a moment before realizing that she had to be on her way. She had four minutes until Transfiguration.

 

 

The combination of the passing of Halloween and the fact that he no longer felt quite so alone - along with Madam Pomfrey’s sleeping potion - meant that Harry’s sleep held no nightmares. Having a chance to see Daphne, after nearly two months away from his surrogate mother and closest ally, had been a godsend as well. Her manner was strained – his injuries had not sat well with her, but she was cheerful and enthusiastic throughout the hour and a half she spent by his side. They’d talked about Harry’s time at Hogwarts, though he had not been entirely honest concerning the severity of the bullying or the social isolation, focusing instead on his classwork, and talking briefly about his relationships with Hermione and Hagrid. He neatly dodged a question about Snape. There was no love lost there.

There was something distant about her throughout their conversation, as if she was keeping something important from him. Or he might have been imagining things. After all, Daphne was often distracted where he was concerned.

It was to his intense relief that Daphne informed him that they would be spending the holidays together after all. Holding his hand tightly, she looked into his eyes and told him firmly, “Edmund’s cousin can wait. _My_ family comes first. You’ll be spending the holidays with me, Harry.” She laughed, although there was a certain edge to it. “It doesn’t seem as though I can let you out of my sight anymore.”

After assuring her that he was fully in favour of this change of plans, Daphne gave him a warm hug and said that she was trying to reconnect with some friends in the British Isles, and that they might even have company for Christmas.

Harry slept fitfully through the remainder of the afternoon (and another visit from Hermione), awaking feeling as refreshed and energized as he had since he arrived at Hogwarts. Testing his weak muscles, he sat up, and didn’t feel any real pain, though his ribs ached and his right arm felt alien, as if it was barely attached to his shoulder. At that moment, Madam Pomfrey came bustling towards him.

“Awake, are you? How are you feeling?”

Harry shrugged. “Much better. I think I can go to classes tomorrow. I am quite hungry, though.” On cue, his stomach gave a loud growl.

Madam Pomfrey felt his forehead, then ran a number of spells. She seemed satisfied with the results. “Right. It’s after dinner, so I’ll have the staff bring something to you. Any preferences? I’ve heard that the Bramley apple sausages were particularly excellent.”

“That sounds brilliant. Thank you, Ma'am."

“I’ll just go and get some for you. I will insist that you stay the night, but barring any setbacks, you will be free to go tomorrow morning. Oh, and this,” she said, offering several sheets of parchment, “was given to me by Miss Granger. Your homework for the day, I believe.”

Harry took it, sucking in a breath as he looked over Hermione's accompanying note. Another essay for McGonagall, questions to answer from Snape regarding a lab that he had not been present for, and a take-home quiz for History of Magic, two classes of Charms homework, a Defence essay on basic protective magic. On top of everything he already had. He would probably need the help Hermione had offered.

His dinner was as excellent as promised, although Harry thought he might have eaten a bit more than was wise. He was just lying back on the propped-up bed when Hermione came in, looking anxious. He waved to her.

“Harry? How are you? I see you had some supper, that’s good. Did you get the assignments I left with Madam Pomfrey?”

Harry nodded. “I did, thanks for that.” He frowned. “You look worried about something.”

“Oh, it’s nothing really dreadful…well, maybe it is.” She huffed. “Ronald got in a row with Malfoy at dinner, and when he called Draco's father a Death Eater, Draco challenged him to a duel at midnight. And then that…stupid _boy_ dragged in _Neville_ as his second.”

“Weasley’s an idiot,” Harry said, almost reflexively. “There is no chance that Malfoy will actually be there. He’s going to alert Filch or Snape.”

“I know!” Hermione exclaimed. “He’s so foolish sometimes! I _told_ him that he was going to get caught, and lose so many points for Gryffindor, but he said that I wouldn’t _understand_.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “And what did he mean by that?”

Hermione huffed. “It was either because I’m Muggleborn, or a girl, but it was _very_ rude. He can be so _infuriating_ sometimes.”

“Sometimes?”

Hermione sighed, unwilling to argue the point. “So what should I do?”

Harry shrugged. “Why bother doing anything?”

“Because Gryffindor really can’t afford to lose those points, and Ronald is already developing a reputation as a troublemaker, and poor Neville shouldn’t be involved in this at all.”

Harry decided to humour her. Neville had treated him decently enough. “Alright, if you are willing to take the risk, I guess you should try to stop them.”

Hermione looked less than pleased with his advice. “I suppose. But Ron doesn’t really listen to _reason_.”

“I'm  _shocked_ , really."

Hermione glared at him. “Harry, I’d appreciate less sarcasm at the moment.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled. He supposed that the habits he’d picked up in his first few months as a Slytherin would not be as well-received by a resident of Gryffindor Tower.

“It’s alright,” Hermione said, sighing. “I can’t really be cross with you for acting like that. Not after everything you’ve been through. I just don’t really like that side of you, that’s all…oh bother, that came out wrong! What I mean was…”

Harry held up a hand. “I know what you mean. I’ll try to be better about that.”

“Thanks,” she said, blushing slightly. She glanced at the grandfather clock against the far wall, which had an outer ring of numbers, and an inner ring that corresponded to Madam Pomfrey’s whereabouts. She was currently ‘In the Office.'

He and Hermione chatted a bit longer, and the Gryffindor gave him a copy of her notes from History of Magic and Potions, which he accepted gratefully. Finally excusing herself, she bid him goodnight, and he allowed himself to succumb to exhaustion. 

He awoke bleary-eyed the next morning, the sun shining through the large windows at the far end of the Hospital Wing. Madam Pomfrey was out of her office at once, checking him over and offering him an assortment of foul-tasting potions. She at last pronounced him fit, and provided him with a clean set of robes. His blood-stained ones were presumably a total loss.

Harry made his way to breakfast, still a bit unsteady on his feet, but feeling the strength start to return to his body. He was anxious to get back into the flow of things. News of his injuries had surely spread, and he was likely to be met with even more whispers and inconspicuous stares. Despite that, he cared less now.

The primary cause of his improved outlook nearly yanked him off his feet as he rounded a corner, and hauled him into an empty classroom before he could protest.

“Yes?” He asked at last, flippant as he could manage.

Hermione threw him a half-hearted glare, and then her anxious enthusiasm returned. “You will not _believe_ what I was doing last night.”

Harry stared blankly back at her.

“Alright, so, I did try to stop Ronald and Neville from leaving the Common Room after curfew, but he pushed me aside and then when I followed them out the door, the F-f-f-…oh, the enchantment again. Anyway, the _portrait_ had gone missing, and we couldn’t get back in. Ron asked me to come along, which I did, though I knew I was being foolish. I was mostly trying to protect Neville.”

Harry nodded.

“So we went along to the Trophy Room and heard Filch waiting for us. I thought we should have hidden, but Ron said that cat of Filch’s would find us, and so he took off running, and Neville and I followed. We made it to the third-floor corridor…and then we ran into Peeves.”

“Oh no.”

Hermione nodded. “So then Ronald had _the_ _brilliant_ idea to tell him not to say anything. So, naturally, he screamed that there were students out of bed in the Charms corridor.”  Harry only nodded. He wondered where this was leading.

Hermione looked as though she was building to something else. “Well, you know that the Charms corridor is on the third floor, right? Do you happen to remember what _else_ is on the third floor?”

Harry’s jaw dropped. “Don’t tell me you…”

Hermione nodded. “We did. I didn’t even know what door it was, but without thinking, I unlocked a door with magic and we ran inside. You won’t believe what we saw.”

“What?”

“A dog, with three heads. A real Cerberus, Harry! _And_ it was standing on a trapdoor! It’s guarding something, it must be!” Hermione said, her eyes lighting up with excitement.

Harry considered that, and the small package that he’d seen Hagrid retrieve from Gringotts came to mind. “Interesting…you all made it back safely, then?”

“Fortunately. I gave Ronald and Neville a piece of my mind before I went to bed.” She blushed lightly. “I was lucky I didn’t wake up Professor McGonagall.”

Harry smirked a bit at that. “Trust me, it’s a poor idea to go around opening doors that have been locked magically. The contents of those rooms are off-limits to students for a reason.”

Hermione eyed him suspiciously “And would you know about that, Harry?”

Now Harry’s cheeks reddened, “I…um…It’s not important.”

“Isn’t it?” she asked. Harry suddenly felt backed into a corner. “ _You_ shouldn’t be opening doors that were locked either, Harry. We did so because it was an emergency.” She frowned. “What _was_ in there?"

Harry stared at the floor. “Something.”

“Obviously.”

Harry felt heat rising to his face. He trusted Hermione a great deal, more than he would have expected this quickly, but he was not ready to let her in the whole way just yet. “I don’t want to talk about it, alright?” He sighed. “Suffice to say two Professors caught me and told me to leave and I didn’t listen to the first one.”

Hermione looked scandalized. “And you weren’t punished the second time?”

“Due to _special_ circumstances, no.”

His friend looked thoughtful. “Oh, I...I suppose I understand. That’s alright, I guess. Just don’t do it again. We should get to breakfast.”

Harry nodded agreement. The two were walking out the door together when they heard an all-too-familiar voice from behind them.

“Oi, what’s going on here? What were you doing in there?”

“Well, if it isn’t Weasley?” Harry drawled. He smiled nastily. “Congratulations on your ‘duel,’ by the way. Were you really so gullible as to believe that Malfoy would actually be there?”

Ron’s ears turned red, and Harry felt a vicious thrill run through his body. Then he noticed Hermione’s dismayed expression.

She spoke before he could. “Stop it, Harry. Please. Let’s just go and get food - you’re starving, aren’t you?”

Harry nodded stiffly, his gaze never leaving Ron.

“On a first name basis now, are you?” Ron asked with an accusing glare.

“C’mon Hermione,” Harry said, struggling to control his temper. Hermione followed, looking upset.

As they passed Ron, he whispered, “ _Traitor…”_

Harry turned back, his wand drawn. “What was that, Weasley?”

The red-head looked down nervously at Harry’s wand. “Nothing important."

 “Fine,” Harry snapped. “I don’t have time to waste on you.” He stalked away, not even bothering a cursory glance over his shoulder.

 

  

They paused outside the Great Hall as a gaggle of students, mostly Gryffindors, moved past them in search of breakfast. Hermione looked curiously at Harry as he breathed deeply, obviously trying to regain his composure. She had gotten very nervous when he pulled out his wand; the last thing Harry or her needed was for him to provide further fodder for all the rumours swirling around him.

Harry seemed to nod to himself and beckoned her follow him into the Great Hall, which was already filling up with hungry students.

Her new friend made to turn towards the Slytherin table, but, feeling daring, she reached out to touch his shoulder. She felt a pang of pity as he visibly started, though it quickly turned to anger at whoever had conditioned him to associate touch with danger.

He looked back at her, confused. She looked at him, really looked for the first time. The boy in front of her, and he was a _boy_ , was visibly exhausted, his face pale and his robes hanging loosely around his slender frame. He looked so _tired_ , even after a few days of rest in the Hospital Wing, and he was still moving gingerly.

_He’s no threat to anyone, you fool. Anyone who doesn’t deserve it, at least._

Her assessment only strengthened her resolve not to leave him alone after all that had happened. A part of her, she realized, never wanted to let Harry Potter out of her sight again.

She pressed on. “Harry, why don’t you sit with me…on the end of the Gryffindor table?”

“Sure that’s a good idea?” Harry asked, glancing at the Gryffindors. Ron had just sat down and was whispering excitedly, and the Gryffindors were now looking at him and Hermione with suspicion. _Honestly, it’s just so_ childish, she thought indignantly.

Still, it was enough to make her hesitate. “On second thought,” Hermione said. “How about we sit with the Ravenclaws? I know Mandy Brocklehurst…a bit. And you know Lisa, right?” She was sure he had seen Harry talking with her after classes, and they seemed friendly.

Harry frowned. “I’ll just sit with the Slytherins, Hermione. I’ll see you later.”

 _Oh no you don’t, Potter._ She searched for an answer, and found it. “Why don’t I sit with you?” she asked.

Harry looked at her as if she’d grown an extra head. “Because…I don’t know, trust me, it’s a bad idea. They don’t like Muggleborns.”

“I don’t care about that, Harry,” she said defiantly.

Harry hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“Yes!” she replied emphatically.

“If you really want to do this, I won’t stop you,” Harry said.

Hermione followed him to the other side of the Great Hall, her head held high. She would _not_ be intimidated by bigotry, no matter who it came from.

That said, the reaction among the Slytherins when Hermione calmly took a seat at their table was as bad as Harry had said. The majority was a bit shocked, though their expressions quickly gave way to displeasure or outright anger. A haughty-looking blonde, Greengrass, she thought, looked at Hermione as if she was something unpleasant on the bottom of her shoe, while another boy with wire-frame spectacles and neatly trimmed brown hair raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. A darker skinned boy, Blaise if she recalled correctly, looked at Harry with disbelief, and Pansy Parkinson and Millicent Bulstrode recovered their initial shock to begin whispering, probably about their housemate’s new Muggleborn companion.

Draco Malfoy, however, wasn’t going to stay quiet. He rose from his seat with a huff, and strode towards them as Harry began to dig in to his breakfast. Her friend visibly stiffened at his approach, and his right hand moved towards his robes.

“What the hell do you think you are doing, Potter? Bringing a Mudblood to the Slytherin table? And a Gryffindor no less?”

Harry met his gaze, barely blinking. “I’m eating with a friend, or at least trying to. You know what a friend is, Draco? It’s someone who enjoys being in your company, and you don’t even have to pay them with daddy’s Death Eater money.”

Hermione was shocked by Harry’s daring. As, apparently, was Malfoy. “I ought to challenge you to a duel, Potter,” he hissed. God, she should have seen this coming. 

Harry’s voice was calm, almost unnervingly so. “So why haven’t you?” Harry might have only been eleven, but he could be more than a little frightening to her.

“Because you aren’t worth my time. Anyone who associates with such…filth is hardly worth my attention,” Malfoy said scathingly. 

“I think you know you would lose, and I’d mess up that pretty face of yours,” Harry retorted.

 _Not bad_ , she thought, then chastised herself for encouraging this show of bravado, silently or not. 

“We’ll see about _that_ , Potter,” he hissed. “Or maybe I’ll just take it out on your little Mudblood.”

Before she could say anything, Harry moved, impossibly fast - in the blink of an eye his wand was up, the tip nestled in the crook of Draco’s neck, and its owner looked positively _irate_. She desperately tried to think of a way out of this.

“You don’t have the guts, Potter,” Malfoy said, although his voice quivered slightly. 

“Just try me,” Harry dared. 

Hermione looked back and forth between them. _I should have listened to Harry, and now there’s going to be a fight and Harry will lose points and end up in detention and this is all my fault._

Draco swallowed hard, and she saw Harry’s mouth turn up into a triumphant grin that really didn’t belong on the face of someone so young. She heard the crack of knuckles and saw the two boys that followed Malfoy around like bodyguards getting ready to spring, pure malice in their expressions. Her hand instinctively went to her own wand, though she had no idea what she was going to do with it.

Fortunately, Harry had clearly had enough, and quickly gathered up the food on his plate into a napkin, and shrunk it with a wave of his wand. She wondered where he had learned to do that.

Harry turned to her, looking very tired. “Come on, Hermione. We’re clearly not wanted by this lot.” He swung his legs back over the bench and gathered up his things before Malfoy could say anything else.

Hermione also rose, avoiding the eyes of the Slytherins around her, afraid to provoke more attacks. She had to hurry to catch up with Harry as he moved swiftly towards the door. 

 

 

Harry kept walking right out the front door, and finally stopped at the stairs leading to the grounds, sitting down. He unwrapped his food, and began tearing into it. 

“Harry,” Hermione said, taking a seat near him, “why did you do that?”

“Because Malfoy’s a slimy, arrogant, stuck-up, inbred prat who can’t keep his fat mouth shut. He’d make a horrid Death Eater. And he threatened you.”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open at the insinuation. “Aren’t you overreacting just a bit?” Harry gave her a look, then rolled up the sleeves of his robes. A series of faded bruises covered his right arm, and she nearly gasped.

“What’s that?” she asked stupidly.

Harry grimaced. “Present from Goyle for waking up Draco with my screaming.” 

Hermione blinked, mind reeling. “Why were you screaming?" 

 _Great response, Granger._  

“Nightmares,” Harry replied simply, then took another bite of his bread roll. “My parents.”

Hermione’s eyes widened in realization. “You mean you have dreams about…”

“Yeah,” he said, taking a sip of pumpkin juice from the goblet he’d brought with him. “They are especially bad around Halloween.” Hermione nodded. “They only went away when…” he stopped, eyes staring into the distance. Then he shook his head, as if to clear it. “…can’t think about that…” he mumbled to himself.

“Think about what?” Hermione asked. He was keeping something important from her. Truth be told, they’d only just started being friends, but based on how freely he shared everything else, she hoped that he might open up.

“Nothing,” he said again, rising to his feet. She quickly followed as he re-entered the castle, trying and failing to get him to elaborate. She knew this was important, and even though she had been taught not to pry and to respect privacy, it was oh so difficult at times.

They continued down the ground floor corridor near what, if she remembered correctly, was the Staffroom. 

Hermione opened her mouth to change the subject to school work, but saw Harry had stopped, and Hermione followed his gaze to see Professor Snape in a hushed but heated argument with Mr. Filch. Snape seemed to have won it, as Filch opened the door to the Staffroom and ushered the Potions Master inside. He was moving with a definite limp, she noticed.

She suddenly recalled that terrible Halloween night. He had been limping then, too.

Filch closed the door behind him, looked suspiciously at Harry and Hermione, who both avoided his gaze, and vanished down a corridor. Two minutes later he reappeared, carrying a small leather bag, this time paying the two first years no heed. He stepped into the room that the Potions Master had entered, but failed to close the door entirely. There was more muted conversation, and then Hermione realized that Harry was no longer standing beside her.

“ _What are you doing?”_ she hissed, as she saw him sneaking toward the slightly ajar door. He merely held up a hand, which told her precisely nothing. She shook her head in exasperation. _He's going to get caught -_   _and he_ shouldn’t _be listening in on the conversations of adults in the first place!_  

Of course, she quickly found herself at his side, pressed up against the wall next to the door, where, she noticed, they would be hidden from view if the door was to swing open. Assuming they weren’t crushed by the back-swing, of course. 

Hermione tuned her ears to what was going on inside, and heard a distinct yelp of pain from the Potions Master, followed by irritated voices.

“…you incompetent, _useless_ …”

“Remember who it is who patched this up for you in the first place, _sir_ ,” the caretaker shot back.

“I do. I _also_ remember whose treatments have failed so miserably to prevent infection _or_ lessen the pain.”

“If you’re so good, why not make a potion to solve all your woes?" 

“I am working on that. There’s something in that overgrown mutt’s saliva that is proving difficult to counteract. In the meantime, I must rely upon these…primitive rags.” 

“They’re called _bandages_ , Professor. And you wouldn’t be in so much pain if you’d been quick enough to prevent your leg being mangled in the first place.”

“ _You_ try it next time, then. I’d love to see _you_ watch all _three heads at once_ , Squib!”

There was a displeased growl. “It’s done, _sir_.”

Harry grabbed her shoulder and pulled out them of sight, behind a corner, just as Snape burst through the door, looking as angry as Hermione had ever seen him. He looked around suspiciously before storming off, his cloak swirling. 

When she saw he was gone and they moved a safe distance away, Hermione immediately demanded an explanation for what had just happened.

As they walked, they quietly discussion the implications. On the night when a troll had been set loose in the dungeons and nearly killed Harry, Professor Snape had been in the forbidden third-floor corridor, and gotten close enough to the three-headed dog to regret it. 

Whatever was down there was valuable. And the Head of Slytherin House had a _very_ strong interest in it.

 

 

The two new friends spent most of the next week in each other’s company - on the grounds, in the library, even in the Great Hall. Lisa Turpin had heard of their predicament and after some insistent discussion, Harry and Hermione sat with her and Terry Boot. The Ravenclaws did not seem to object, probably reasoning that if Hermione was friends with him and Lisa and Terry didn’t mind him, he couldn’t be that bad. The Gryffindors still roundly disliked him, the first years in particular for Harry taking their source of schoolwork help away. At this point Hermione spent very little time in her own Common Room.

Not that it mattered anymore. Harry was a great friend, as good as she could ask for, better than she could have hoped given the circumstances that had led them to this point.

Harry was very intelligent, yes, but more surprisingly she found him kind and understanding as well, and Hermione felt free to discuss her problems with him. He returned the favour, even when his own thoughts were fairly dark, but she found she didn’t mind.

She hadn’t figured out what it was that he was so obviously hiding from her, and so figured it must be something very private. She resolved to be there for him when he needed her, and not push him when it was clear he would rather be alone. Easier said than done, of course, and once in a while, the treatment she got from the other Gryffindors would be more than she could handle and Harry would be in one of his dark moods, but they managed.

Daphne Dressler had apparently taught a few tricks to her surrogate son, but Hermione learned that most of the advanced magic that Harry knew he had learned on his own initiative, including both of the spells he’d tried to use on the troll. Hermione had attempted to learn some of the duelling spells, and had the Disarming Spell down, though the Stunning Spell was eluding her.

It all seemed to come a bit more naturally to Harry, which was frustrating to her at times. She did worry though, when she saw the anger in Harry’s eyes as he cast his spells. 

It was late one Sunday afternoon when Harry suggested they go and see their mutual friend, Hagrid. The two crossed the bridge and walked down to Hagrid’s hut at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. The first thing she noticed was that the door and windows were firmly shut. That was certainly odd.

Harry thumped on the heavy door, and through it they could the sound hurried movements and muttered oaths. Frowning, Harry knocked again. “Hagrid? It’s just me and Hermione.”

The movement (and curses) stopped. There was a long pause. “Alright, ‘Arry, come in.”

Hermione swore she heard a muffled, “What are you doing?!” before Harry pushed the door open. Inside, much to her dismay, was Ron. Less displeasing was the presence of Neville, looking skittish and hidden in a corner near Hagrid’s enormous boarhound. Ron opened his mouth to say something when Harry’s attention was drawn to what was on the table.

“Hagrid, are you _mad_? Is that…from a _dragon_? You live in…in a _wooden_ house!” 

Hermione had no idea what Harry was talking about, but then she saw what looked like an oversized speckled ostrich egg. “Oh dear,” she muttered.

Ron threw up his hands. “Oh, great, now the _Slytherin_ knows. Happy now, Hermione? Happy that Hagrid’s going to get _arrested_?” 

The large man paled dramatically at that, and took a large swig of noxious smelling liquor.

Harry’s eyes flashed. “Of course he _isn’t_ , you stupid arse, because I am not going to tell on him.”

“How can you stand him, Hermione?” Ron asked, exasperated. “He’s just a grouchy, slimy, Slytherin _git_." 

Hermione was of half a mind to tell the boy exactly what she thought of _him,_ but restrained herself. 

Hagrid shifted nervously, trying to cover up the egg. “Uh, maybe ‘e’s right, ‘Arry. Maybe yeh should go…I just don’t want any trouble, yeh know.”

Harry glared at him, but there was hurt in his eyes. “ _Fine,”_ he ground out, then spun on his heel and ran out of the cabin. Hermione stood there, fixing them with a glare, one after another. “I hope _you’re_ happy,” she said, aiming a particularly vicious look at Ron, before running after her friend.

Hermione found Harry at the water’s edge, leaning against a tree. She saw silent tears streaming down his face. He had his Slytherin House badge in his left hand, his tie in his right. He suddenly rolled the badge into the tie, and with a mighty heave, hurled both as far as he could into the Lake. 

“Harry?” Hermione asked. Harry spun around with the eerily military-like precision she supposed must have come from watching his guardian. It only seemed to happen when he was upset. She walked forward and put a hand on his shoulder, but he didn’t react. She then pulled him into a tentative embrace, and was surprised to feel him return it enthusiastically.

She did her best to reassure him. “Harry, it’s not what you think…Hagrid just doesn’t want you two arguing, and he’s afraid he might get caught. What he’s doing _is_ illegal, after all.” 

He stiffened. “And somehow _I_ am less trustworthy, because of the House I come from? No other reason,” he said into her shoulder.

She squeezed back firmly. “I don’t know. But I’m sure Hagrid regrets what happened. He doesn’t mean to hurt you, you know. But it sounds as though he has reason to distrust Slytherins.”

They broke apart, and Hermione beamed at him reassuringly. Harry gave a weak smile back. She pulled him to his feet. “C’mon, we’re going to see a man about a dragon.” Harry laughed slightly, and she grabbed his hand and they ran back towards the hut. 

 

 

Harry pushed open the door, feeling his features shift into a hardened mask.

“Why are you back?” Ron demanded. 

Harry ignored him completely, moving past him to stand directly in front of the Groundskeeper. “I’ve gotten rid of my badge and my tie. I’ve got nothing else indicating that I’m Slytherin. Am I allowed to stay now?” 

Hagrid at least had the grace to look ashamed. “Sorry ‘Arry. Had some bad experiences ‘cause of Slytherins. One got me expelled. I wasn’t bein’ fair to yeh.”

He felt Hermione tense in curiosity beside him as she moved up to take his hand, but she said nothing. 

Harry forced out the words, “It’s fine.” Then he added, “So, a dragon egg.”

Hagrid looked wary, but could not fight the smile that came to his face. “Always wanted a dragon, yeh know. Such magnificent creatures, they are. And what’d’ya know, one night I go down to Hogsmeade, ter the Hog’s Head, and there’s a bloke playing cards, and he’s got one. Won’t say where he found it, but it’s a real one, alright.”

He glanced at Hermione, who looked rather nervous. “Hagrid, what exactly are you planning to _do_ with a dragon’s egg?”

“Well, hatch it, o’course!” he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Granted, given what he had just told them, it might have been. That did not make the prospect any less frightening.

Neville finally spoke up. “You’re going to hatch it…now?”

Hagrid paused. “Well, no. Ye see, I reckon I ought ter do some research first. And with the holidays comin’ up, I’m goin’ ter be real busy and all.” He paused. “Was thinking sometime after yeh all get back. I’ll know what ter do by then, I reckon.”

No one argued with that logic, though Harry immediately wondered if he ought to tell Daphne about Hagrid’s mad scheme. He was not sure how his guardian would react. And he did like Hagrid, even if their relationship had not always been easy. If a Slytherin had gotten him expelled from Hogwarts, his animosity and distrust towards the House and its members was understandable, if frustrating.

“So, that’s settled,” Hermione said with a ring of finality. “And we’re all…” she looked like she was struggling to say the words that came next, “sworn to secrecy, aren’t we?”

“What’s to say Potter _won’t_ tell?” 

Harry clenched his teeth as he turned to face the irksome Gryffindor. “Maybe if you spent more time around me, Weasley, you might know that I keep my promises.”

Ron looked disgusted. “I’d prefer the company of that bloody three-headed dog over yours!”

“How do you know about Fluffy!?”

Four sets of eyes turned to him. Harry said, quietly, “ _Fluffy?”_ while Hermione opted for “that thing has a _name?!”_ Ron and Neville just stared, open-mouthed. 

Hagrid shifted nervously, and the floorboards creaked. “Yeah, ‘e’s mine. Bought ‘im off a Greek chappie down in the Hog’s Head when he was just a little baby.”

Hermione looked to Harry in disbelief. 

“What’s it guarding?” Harry asked, hoping to catch Hagrid off guard.

It _almost_ worked. “Oh, it’s guarding the S-…Hey! Can’t tell yeh that. That’s between Dumbledore an’ Nicholas Flamel,” Hagrid said angrily.  Harry supposed he had earned it this time. 

“Flamel?” Harry repeated. “Does that have anything to do with that package you got in Gringotts?” Hagrid looked even more alarmed.

“Shouldn’ta told yeh that,” Hagrid muttered under his breath. “All right, clear out, all of yeh.”

As if grateful for an excuse to the leave the company of the Slytherin and his traitorous friend, Ron and Neville practically dashed out of the hut, though Neville was much more tentative and gave them a nervous look before Ron yanked him the rest of the way through the door. Hermione sighed; Harry knew she believed Neville was better than Weasley, but he didn’t have many friends either, and so tended to follow the other boy around like a lost puppy.

They said their own farewells to Hagrid, and the Gamekeeper made sure to apologize again for suspecting Harry, though he seemed a bit upset that Harry had just tried to trick him into revealing more than he should.

As they approached the bridge, Harry and Hermione turned to each other. “Library,” they said simultaneously, prompting a snort from Harry and a giggle from Hermione. Beaming at each other, the two friends raced up the path and headed for their favourite part of the school.

 

 

Harry and Hermione threw themselves headfirst into this latest research project. Unfortunately, despite reading and re-reading as many books on famous witches of wizards in recent times, they found no mention of the mysterious Flamel. Hermione swore she had read the name before, but couldn’t figure out where without proper context. Even Harry’s fairly considerable knowledge of wizarding history was little help. Both suspected that the answers they sought could be found in the Restricted Section, but there was little hope of them gaining access to those books.

Their extracurricular research was often cut short by an increasing academic load, as well as Slytherin Quidditch practice, which took away the majority of two or three evenings a week. Harry and Hermione budgeted their time well, and managed to get all of their work done, in a reasonably timely manner most of the time, while they competed with each other for the best marks in all of their classes. Hermione bested him regularly, with her impeccable memory, but Harry kept pace with a knack for insight and penchant for improvisation. It was hard not to try his best when he spent nearly all the time he could with Hermione Granger.

They were the only ones now who could stay awake during History of Magic, and while Hermione wasn’t quite as interested in the subject as Harry, they still had the occasional debate about magical history. At meals they sat with Lisa Turpin and Terry Boot, and became closer friends with the two Ravenclaws, even if they relied on each other most. Malfoy seemed to be ignoring Harry entirely, something that the other boy didn’t mind at all. Aside from the occasional conversation with Nott or Greengrass, and once in a while Blaise Zabini, Harry rarely spoke to his Slytherin classmates, at least when Hermione was around. Not that he (and she) did not get a few dirty looks once in a while. But that was to be expected at this point. 

Quidditch was increasingly gruelling. Flint’s motto was ‘win the cup or die trying,’ and he seemed to take it rather seriously, at one point telling Bletchley that if she was killed by his practice schedules, it would only make her stronger. Harry loved to fly, but flying in freezing cold rain and wind stretched even his enthusiasm to the breaking point. Strangely enough, his teammates didn’t seem to care that he always brought Hermione along, who would sit unnoticed in the otherwise empty stands, reading. Harry supposed they thought that the rest of Gryffindor hated Granger, so she probably wouldn’t be spying on their practices. Flint had said something to that effect the first time she accompanied Harry, but he oddly didn’t push it when Harry firmly denied the possibility. Not that Hermione bothered to understand the complicated aerial manoeuvres anyway. Quidditch, like flying, was not her forte. Still, Harry would push his best friend onto a broom once in a while, trying to at least get her proficient. It was slow going.

Their second game was played at the end of November, Slytherin vs. Ravenclaw.

Ravenclaw had a team almost entirely composed of second and third years, none of whom had been together very long. Roger Davies, a third year and one of the Chasers, was the only player who had been on last year’s team, most of whom had graduated the previous summer.

Harry’s opposite number was a pretty second year named Cho Chang who seemed to be experienced on a broom, but wasn’t quite the natural at the position that Harry was. The team as a whole was inexperienced and hadn’t practiced together nearly enough, and the Slytherins took full advantage.

It was a rout from the time that Madam Hooch blew her whistle. The Slytherin Chasers scored with reckless abandon, reducing the young Eagle Keeper to tears. The Ravenclaw Beaters could hardly get their hands on a Bludger to hit, because Bole and Derrick were playing the best they ever had, harassing the Ravenclaw Chasers and even causing Chang to crash. The game was played in the middle of a rainstorm, and the terrible conditions finally justified all of those hellish practices. 

Hermione was sitting in the section generally used by members of Slytherin House to avoid trouble with the Gryffindors, given her rooting interests. Harry had begged Nott and Greengrass to let her sit there, just so that she could support him, and they had reluctantly agreed, though Greengrass had added, “don’t expect me to talk to her.” Nott had just nodded, a sign that Harry took as meaning, “I won’t let anything happen to her.” Harry really wasn’t sure what to think of the enigmatic Slytherin boy at times. 

With Hermione cheering him on, wearing a borrowed green scarf to placate the Serpent fans, Harry prowled around in pursuit of the Snitch. The score was 210-20 Slytherin, and Mal Bletchley was making a show of lounging on her broom, yawning occasionally to mock the hapless Ravenclaw Chasers. Harry spotted the Snitch near her and took off, making a fist to indicate the Snitch was near her. Bletchley got out of the way, and Harry was quickly in pursuit. Chang reacted slowly, cruising on the other side of the field, and Harry had the golden ball struggling to escape his grip by the time she had reached him.

The final victory was staggering 360-30 in favour of Slytherin. Harry flew down and received a hug from Hermione and a pat on the back in congratulations. Nott just smiled mysteriously at Harry. His team even toasted Harry’s success at the after-party in the Slytherin Common Room, which had the added benefit of chasing Malfoy off in disgust, to the loud laughter of Mal and Pucey. Bletchley even gave him a punch on the arm, which while it left him feeling numb, he gathered was basically her version of a kiss on the cheek.

Unfortunately for Hermione, the response of the Gryffindors to her sitting, ‘behind enemy lines’ was not a positive one. Nor was it was it her best decision to admit she’d attended every Slytherin practice. Ron Weasley started ranting about “House Loyalty,” something that made Harry snort into his eggs when he heard about the redhead’s claptrap. 

Weasley was of the (loud) opinion that it was Hermione’s duty to report back on the Slytherins. When she refused, stating that the only reason Flint tolerated her presence was because she _wasn’t_ a spy, Ron looked ready to explode. Neville got to him quickly enough to prevent a major incident, which was good because these days, Harry was sometimes in a mood that he would only need an excuse to hex Ron into next week. 

And so the year dragged on. Classes went on. Essays and other assignments came and went. Snape’s limp vanished, though he remained as foul-tempered as ever. And the name Nicholas Flamel remained a puzzling mystery to the two Hogwarts first-year students desperate for answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so Harry and Hermione are a team at last, and Harry's world got a lot brighter for not being alone anymore (though to reiterate, this is not setting up a romantic relationship in the future).


	9. Home for the Holidays

Harry’s life had certainly taken a significant turn for the better. But discovering a rare friend and ally in what had been a nest of teenage and pre-pubescent vipers could do that to a boy.

By this point, Harry and Hermione were as close of friends as either could have dreamed. It would be unfair to Trisha and Tanner and the rest of the people he had known from the many places he’d grown up to say that Hermione was his first real friend, but there was no doubt in Harry’s mind that the intellectually ravenous Gryffindor he now spent nearly all of his time with was his new best friend.

And yet in some ways they still existed in different worlds. Harry did not dare exposing Hermione to the Slytherin Common Room, and he remained very much unwelcome anywhere in the vicinity of Gryffindor Tower. The Library, the castle grounds (before the winter weather made studying outside increasingly impractical), and a few classrooms here and there were their usual refuges. 

Their search for the significance of Nicholas Flamel continued. Harry and Hermione had each run across a few brief references – the man was known as a practitioner of the ancient art of alchemy, now mostly considered an archaic and largely fruitless field of magic. 

There were, they discovered, some laws of nature in the magical world that prohibited the permanent transfiguration of certain elements into others. After all, there was a reason why gold had remained an extremely precious metal for wizards as well as Muggles – it seemed that no amount of magic could permanently transform a lump of iron into gold. Charms could temporarily imbue other metals with the properties, appearance, and even substance of gold, but the effects always faded. 

But what Flamel might have had to do with the small package Harry had caught a glimpse of in Gringotts was still unclear. Hermione swore up and down that she remembered reading something, but it was in one of the many massive volumes that she had looked through at the beginning of the school year, when she was still trying to get settled into her strange new world. Since she and Harry had become friends, her focus had increasingly been on practical uses of magic, as both of them were keen to be able to defend themselves if push came to wands. 

As the returns of their extracurricular research diminished, so did their fervour to learn what was hidden inside of Hogwarts. Hermione was certain that Dumbledore would find a way to protect whatever it was **,** even assuming they were right about Snape seeking to take it for his own. And while Harry did not entirely share his friend’s confidence in the Headmaster, he trusted that the man was in a better position to protect the school than he was. After all, Harry was just a first year, albeit one with a storied past. It really wasn’t _his_ problem, was it? 

At least, it shouldn’t be. But Harry had learned from bitter experience that _should_ and _would_ were often very different things.

A more pressing problem that they faced was how to deal with the upcoming holidays. Hermione’s parents insisted she come with them on a skiing holiday to Switzerland, though Hermione suspected that they also wanted to take her away from the magical world for a bit, just to make sure her study, enthusiastic as it was, had merit in and of itself. Her parents were still somewhat career oriented – they had met in Dental School, after all, and seemed very intent that their talented daughter go as far as her abilities could take her. 

There was also the fact that she hadn’t said the nicest things about Harry in some of her early letters; indeed, she feared that the Boy-Who-Lived had come off as a bit…stalkerish. Since she refused to tell her parents about their near-death experience with the troll (“that would have me out of here before you could say ‘Dumbledore”’), the Grangers were sceptical of her about-face with regards to Harry. Hermione confided, embarrassed, that her mother had given her a lecture on adolescent crushes in her last letter. 

These worries continued to weigh on him as the holidays approached. The day he walked into the Great Hall and saw Hagrid putting up enormous pine trees and McGonagall and Flitwick busily conjuring shiny baubles to decorate the boughs of holly that lined the walls, he felt a cold knot form in his stomach. There was a part of him that was terrified that Hermione might come back from visiting her parents and no longer want to be his friend. It was ridiculous, he told himself, but that did not quell his anxiety.

Mercifully, Harry would not be staying on his own at Hogwarts, as had been the plan at the start of the year, but would be spending the holidays with Daphne at her late husband’s ancestral home. This was a particularly good thing because more than half of the students remaining at Hogwarts were Gryffindors, and they were mostly the ones that were not terribly fond of him, including a plethora of Weasleys. And while Fred and George did not seem to dislike him nearly as much as their younger brother did, Harry would have been the most obvious target for their pranks. 

And while he was certainly aware of his surroundings and increasingly cautious, the twins were undeniably experts at their craft. It was all harmless fun, mostly, including spells that changed his colours to red and gold (and once his hair), and once when they charmed his schoolbooks to fly across the room when he touched them, until Hermione yelled at them for a full minute. Harry secretly admired them for pulling that one off.

On the morning of the ninth, Harry came up from the dungeons and found Hermione waiting for him patiently outside the Hall. Once inside, they joined Mandy Brocklehurst, a new friend, along with Terry and Lisa at the Ravenclaw table. While Hermione, Terry, and Mandy launched into a lively continuation of their discussion on Transfiguration from the previous night, with each student adding things they had read about after dinner, Harry chatted briefly with Lisa, who told him that she would be visiting relatives in America, somewhere in the Midwest, in a town called Northfield. He was pleasantly surprised when a letter from Hedwig landed on his bacon. 

Harry saw it was from Daphne and ripped open the envelope without hesitation. Hermione shamelessly read over his shoulder.

 

_Dearest Harry,_

_I’m counting down the days until I see you again! As we discussed during my last visit, I will be waiting for you at Platform 9 ¾, assuming you are still interested? I do have some other news: we will be joined for most of the holidays by an old friend of mine, Andromeda Tonks, and her daughter, who is an Auror trainee. Nymphadora can be rather a handful, but I think you’ll get along famously._

_Please send a response back with Hedwig. I will understand if you choose to stay at Hogwarts for the holidays. If not, I’ll see you at the end of term._

_My best wishes to Hermione._

_All My Love,_

_Daphne_

Harry grinned broadly. “Who would have thought I would be so excited for the winter hols to start?" Then his smile froze. "Wish you could come too, Hermione.” 

“The feeling’s mutual,” his friend said, but her expression brightened. “You’ll get to meet someone training to be an Auror? That’s fantastic! They only take the best wizards and witches, you know. Miss Tonks must be very accomplished.”

“Yeah, probably,” Harry replied. So, this girl would be quite a bit older than him, but probably still young at heart, by the sounds of things. 

Terry Boot spoke up. “I think I’ve heard the name before.”

“Really? Can you recall where?” Harry asked. 

Terry shook his head, but a second year girl he thought he remembered as Marietta answered instead. 

“There was a Hufflepuff named Tonks a few years back that my brother David told me about. She was always making trouble. They are trying to make _her_ into an Auror?”

Hermione came to the girl’s defence. “I’m sure they wouldn’t have accepted her unless they were sure she was up to the challenge. Maybe she’s changed since your brother knew her?” 

The other girl shrugged, and went back to chatting with Cho Chang, who to Harry’s relief did not seem to be holding her team’s humiliating defeat against Slytherin’s Seeker.

“Should be an interesting time,” Harry mused as he drew out a quill, ink, and a roll of fresh parchment.

 

_Daphne,_

 

_Sounds absolutely wonderful. I’ll definitely be coming home to be with you this Christmas. I’m really looking forward to meeting your friend and her daughter._

_Love,_

 

_Harry_

He rolled up the note and tied it to Hedwig’s offered leg, scratching her gently behind the ears when he was done. She gave a contented hoot and with a flap of her great wings, the snowy owl took flight.

 

 

 

The end of term arrived faster than Harry would have thought possible. In honour of the holiday season, most of the staff (save Snape of course, as no one could fill him with Christmas cheer), suspended their usual lessons in favour of assignments more in keeping with the spirit of the season. In double Herbology, they trimmed mistletoe and planted small fir trees, in addition to learning how to keep certain temperature-sensitive magical plants warm. In Charms, Flitwick taught them a set of animation charms used to enliven holiday cards and letters. The results were mixed, and the Head of House for Ravenclaw sheepishly admitted that he may have chosen something a bit too challenging for first years. This was _after_ he had finally managed to stop Draco Malfoy’s attempt from emitting an ear-splitting shriek of ‘ _HAPPY CHRISTMAS MUM!_ ’

Professor McGonagall set them to transfiguring small cubes of aluminium into their own Christmas ornaments. Harry had first attempted to shape a Snitch, but quickly realized that the level of precision required was well beyond his skills. Hermione had, after several tries, created a book-shaped ornament that she could paste a picture on. She drew out a photograph she had in her bag, one that featured Harry and Hermione, red-faced and covered from head to foot in snow after a brisk half hour of hurling snowballs at each other, their likenesses grinning broadly until photo-Hermione sneakily shoved snow down the back of photo-Harry’s neck. Lisa Turpin had taken it for them with her magical camera.

Harry felt a warmth spread through him when she showed him the finished product. After a few more experiments, Harry had managed to create something that vaguely resembled a mirror, in which he placed an image of him and Hermione, taken by a helpful Muggleborn Hufflepuff named Justin Finch-Fletchley, over one of the few he had of his parents and Daphne, as well as a dark-haired man just out of frame who Harry did not recognize. Harry supposed he must have been an old friend of his parents, killed during the last war.

Hermione had been _extremely_ curious as to his choice of ornament, though Professor McGonagall had given him a small smile, prompting a string of questions from a certain Gryffindor first year.

He kept his silence. As comfortable as he felt talking to Hermione about most things, what he had seen in the Mirror of Erised remained a closely guarded secret. 

After dinner, Harry some time picking out what he needed to bring home with him into his trunk, planning to lock the rest inside his four-poster bed with the basic security wards Daphne had taught him. Despite his less than cordial relations with his roommates, his belongings had not been touched.

He spent much of the evening before he fell asleep musing on his new relationship with Hermione Granger. Daphne might have called it a crush, but somehow, that did not quite feel right to him. But he also supposed that he was only eleven, and the idea of romance was somewhat beyond him, so it was hardly safe to draw conclusions on that front. His friendship with Hermione was close and comfortable, and that was what was most important.

It was going to be hard to leave her, even if Daphne was waiting for him. She had filled a gaping void in his life at the time he had needed it most. 

Harry shook his head, trying to clear it. He was tired, and thinking about things like this wasn’t going to help. What would come would come.

 

 

Harry awoke, as usual, before his roommates. He often found it quite odd that he was a heavy sleeper everywhere but in the dungeons of Slytherin House; something unnerved him here. After a quick shower, he made his bed the best he could, and quietly double-checked his belongings. Once they were neatly arranged on his bed, he loaded them into his trunk, then shut the curtains and locked them, setting a new password, ‘Nymphadora.’ He smiled a bit at that. This girl he did not know at all was already making an impact on his life. 

As his roommates finally began to rise out of their slumber, Harry dressed in his school robes and left the Common Room.

As usual, Hermione was waiting for him in the corridor adjacent to the Great Hall, a bright smile on her face.

He walked over to her. “You know; you don’t have to wait for me every time.”

“I know,” she said, “but I don’t mind. By the way, we ought to leave at quarter past nine for the ten o’clock train. So I would eat quickly so you can put all of your things in order.”

“I know that,” Harry said, as they sat down. “We’ve got plenty of time. I’m just about done anyway.” 

Hermione looked flabbergasted. “You actually packed? In advance? I’ve never met a boy who actually packed before he had to.”

Harry shrugged. “Daphne always insisted that we should be ready to leave at a moment’s notice, at least before we moved to Newfoundland. I guess she was afraid of getting tracked down.”

Hermione frowned. “Tracked down? By who?”

Harry paused. “Dumbledore, I think.”

“But why would she need to hide from Professor Dumbledore?” Hermione asked, sounding rather scandalised by the prospect.

“I…,”  he began uncertainly, “I think that Daphne never asked if she could take me after my parents died. That he wanted to put me with my mother’s Muggle family. At least I think that’s what it was about. Daphne doesn’t…speak well of them.”

Hermione’s frown deepened. “Surely he must have had his reasons? But Daphne was your mum’s friend, wasn’t she?" 

“They were like sisters, the way she tells it,” Harry replied. “I think…she was unwell, after her husband died. They were probably worried about her being able to raise a baby.” He was feeling increasingly uncomfortable as this conversation went on.

“Hmmm,” Hermione said, but she had apparently caught on to his reluctance to talk about this, as she left it at that. _She’ll probably bring it up again at some point_ , he thought. _And I had best have some better answers._

As some of their Ravenclaw friends began to join them, they talked about more mundane things, such as the complete uselessness of their Defence professor. He turned to look at his best friend. “Have you actually learned anything from Quirrell, Hermione?” Harry asked, taking a bite of bacon. 

Hermione looked nervous, as she was obviously about to speak ill of a teacher. “Well, we learned a bit about theoretical Defence, but…”

“You’re too kind, Hermione.” Lisa Turpin cut in, sitting down beside Harry. “I was so excited for that class above everything else, and it has just been a complete waste of time. He actually assigned the same reading three times in a row, and seemed to forget each time!”

Mandy, sitting across from Hermione and looking as though she hadn’t slept for years, nodded drowsily in agreement, before Terry Boot changed the subject entirely by talking about his holiday plans. His parents were taking him and his younger brother to Rome. Michael Crawford (who was distantly related to the O’Connor family, he had learned) bragged about his upcoming trip to India, which led to some furious questioning from Padma Patil, whose family had emigrated from near Bangalore. Anthony Goldstein complained about the number of relatives he would have to see to a not-particularly-sympathetic Morag MacDougal, who came from a similarly august (and expansive) family. Su Li sat quietly on her own, reading a book on Transfiguration. By this point the whole first year Ravenclaw class had become used to Harry and Hermione's presence at meals.

Harry became lost in thought as the voices around him blended into indistinct noise.

“What is it, Harry?” Hermione asked, bringing back his attention.

Harry frowned, but decided to say what he was thinking. “I dunno…there’s something odd about Quirrell, almost like…he's pretending? Like he’s putting on an act,” Harry said, glancing up at the professor in question, who was eating quietly, jumping at small noises. _It was just…too much_ , he thought.

“Well,” Hermione began in her ‘know-it-all’ voice, “I have noticed some of what you are talking about. But I think he’s just incompetent, and he knows it.”

Harry’s mouth dropped open. “Did you really just say something bad about a professor? Who are you, and what have you done with Hermione Granger?”   

She glared at him. “Don’t be like that,” she said crossly. Then she sighed, before glancing up and down the table to make sure no one was listening. Lisa, Mandy, and Terry were all absorbed in their own conversations. “Harry, do you…do you feel this uneasiness about us not being together…for a few weeks, I mean. Of course, we’re just friends, but, well…do you have any idea what I’m talking about?” she finished very quickly.

“A bit, yeah,” Harry admitted.

Hermione continued, her voice dropping to a whisper. “We’ve just been depending on each other so much that the prospect of being apart is a bit frightening. I mean, I don’t really have any friends in my own House…Don’t blame yourself for that, Harry. I chose to be your friend, knowing the consequences.”

Harry nodded. “I’m glad you did.”

“So am I,” Hermione replied, smiling nervously. “I’m going to miss you. A lot. It’s just…well…I like to have everything organized and scheduled. I always make sure to meet you at the Great Hall for breakfast, for example. And I study with you in the afternoons, and we go for walks sometimes, and we work together in the evenings. I rather like the routine we have. I don’t think I’ve ever been so…comfortable. It’s…it’s really nice not to be alone, for once.” Her face was downcast when she finished.

Harry put his hand on her shoulder. “It’s not for that long, though. The holidays will be over before you know it. And it will be good to see your parents again, right? I’m sure they’ll want to hear all about what their brilliant daughter has been doing these last few months.” 

Hermione blushed. “Yes, I suppose they will.” 

 

 

Later that morning, Harry and Hermione walked side by side down to the horseless carriages, chatting amiably. They came upon Hagrid, who appeared to be doing something with…well, what seemed to be thin air. He suddenly jerked back, as though struck. “Stop that, girl. Yeh gonna hurt me one o’ these days,” he said, apparently to no one. 

Harry walked up to him. “Hagrid? Are you alright?” he asked, unsure of what exactly the big man was doing.

Hagrid almost jumped. “Oh, just fine, ‘Arry. Just having some trouble with the thestrals.”

“Pardon?” Hermione asked, a note of suspicion in her voice. “What did you say?” 

“Well I’m…oh,” he said, pausing. “Forgot yeh couldn’t see ‘em, ‘ermione. Yeh see, the carriages are pulled by these big creatures called thestrals. They uh, look sommat like a big black horse, and they have wings. Wonderful creatures, thestrals.”

Hermione look mildly horrified. “Thestrals? Aren’t they _Dark_ creatures? And they pull the carriages?” Hermione asked, her voice growing higher with each question.

Hagrid shrugged. “They ain't Dark, just considered real unlucky. Codswallop. Yeh can’t see them ‘til _after_ yeh see someone die.”

Hermione gasped as Harry pondered that. “Hagrid, why can’t _I_ see them?”

Hagrid looked confused. “ _Yeh can’t_? But yer mum…maybe yeh had yer eyes closed, or sommat. Maybe yeh have ter remember. I dunno, but I’d be grateful, ‘arry. I saw me dad die when I was in me second year. Got real sick. Real sad I was.”

“Sorry for reminding you, Hagrid,” Harry said, staring intently into the air that Hagrid was now stroking gently. Just for the blink of an eye, there was a flash of something, and a faint outline appeared, before Harry saw what must have been the thestral itself, a pitch-black horse-like creature with leathery wings. Then it vanished, so quickly that he was not entirely sure he had not imagined it.

Harry jerked back in surprise, and Hermione caught him. “Was that it _?_ I think…I think I saw the thestral.”

Hagrid frowned. “I thought yeh said yeh couldn’t see ‘em?”

“Just for a moment,” Harry explained. “It was just an outline of something, and then it was gone. But I saw _something_.”

“Relax, ‘arry, I believe yeh. Just a bit surprised, that’s all,” Hagrid reassured him. “…Whoa, what’s going on here?” Hagrid hurried over to Harry, stepping in front of him to push back an invisible creature with his considerable bulk.  “Back off, yeh mad creature! Stay still, ‘arry, this one seems to have taken a liking to yeh. Careful, now, just back away, slowly.”

Harry happily obliged, rather unnerved by the idea of something he could not see ‘taking a liking’ to him.

“All right now, yeh can go, ‘Arry. Best yeh do. And uh, pick another carriage for yeh and Hermione. Dunno know what got inter this one,” Hagrid said. He turned caring eyes on the both of them. “Have a good Christmas, both of yeh. Stay out o’ trouble, I want ter see yeh both safe an’ sound when it’s over, yeh hear?”

Hermione nodded vigorously, before moving forward to embrace the big Gamekeeper, more or less wrapping her arms around one of his massive legs. The man looked somewhat taken aback as the small Gryffindor clung to his coat. Harry conveyed what he needed to with a look, one that conveyed gratitude, anxiety, and hope. He took Hagrid’s sigh and slow nod to mean that his message had been received.

Hagrid patted Hermione as gently as he could on the back, and she let go, her face a bit flushed. “Goodbye, Hagrid,” she said quietly, before turning to Harry and offering a gloved hand. Harry took it, squeezing firmly, and they left Hagrid to his thestrals.

Finding another carriage was slightly more difficult than expected, as Harry has no sooner hoisted himself up the ladder into the next in line when he was met by the sight of a pair of older Hufflepuffs snogging, utterly oblivious to the rest of the world. The next was already fully occupied. Hermione had no better luck. Wandering about, trying to find an empty carriage before they got left behind, they heard a familiar voice.

“Hermione!...and…Harry. Do you want to join me?”

Hermione smiled brightly. “Of course, Neville.” They quickly piled in, just as the carriages towards the front of the line began to move.

Neville grinned. “I’m glad to have a bit of company.” His face fell. “It hasn’t been the best morning.” 

“What’s wrong, Neville?” Hermione asked, as their carriage jerked gently into motion.

“Well, Malfoy has been at me all day, calling me names, and saying some dreadful things about my parents – they aren’t…well,” he said, in response to Hermione’s questioning look.

 _I guess knocking the arrogant prat off his broom wasn’t enough_ , Harry thought darkly. Hermione seemed to sense the building tension, and laid a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder for just a moment, bringing him back.

“I’m sorry Neville. Malfoy’s an idiot and doesn’t understand anything,” Harry said softly.

“So, you… _know_ , then? I thought you might, after you chased him on the broom. Did you really do that ‘cause he insulted my mum and dad?”

“I did it for a lot of reasons,” Harry admitted. “But that set me off, yes."

“Might someone explain what you are talking about?” Hermione cut in, sounding somewhat impatient.  “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry, but…” 

Harry glanced at the Gryffindor boy, who grimaced. Then he nodded ever so slightly.

“Neville’s parents fought in the last war, and they got hurt,” Harry explained, as vaguely as he possible could. “Do you want to tell her? Or can I?”

Neville paled a bit at the prospect. “Go ahead,” he almost whispered.

Harry turned to his friend. “I heard about it from Daphne; she was good friends with Neville’s mum when both of them were training to be Aurors,” he explained. “Neville’s mum and dad were both Aurors, good ones, too, but they were attacked by some Death Eaters after Voldemort” – Neville shivered slightly – “disappeared.”

“The Lestranges?” Hermione asked, her eyes going wide. “I read about that in _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ – oh my God, Neville, I’m so sorry, I had no idea that was your family!”

“Gran’s raised me,” Neville said quietly. “She does a good job, even if she’s a bit harsh. But she wants the best for me, you know?”

“Oh Neville,” Hermione cried, crossing the carriage to throw her arms around the other Gryffindor. The pudgy boy looked rather baffled for a moment, before Harry smiled at him, and he gently, tentatively squeezed Hermione back.

 

 

Harry invited Neville to join them in a compartment with a few of the older Ravenclaws, but he sheepishly declined. When pressed, he admitted that he did not want to push his luck with his fellow Gryffindors, who weren’t all that fond of him to begin with. After a bit of barely-suppressed teeth-gnashing by the Boy Who Lived, they bid the nervous boy goodbye, and Hermione and her new best friend settled in for the long ride back to King’s Cross. 

Hermione was reading through a book on charms theory, while Harry seemed to spend much of the journey lost in his thoughts, staring wistfully out the window as the Scottish and English countryside flashed by, though he would occasionally give her a warm smile.

Hermione studied him carefully when he was not looking her direction. He was a curious boy; that much was certain. Very intelligent, obviously, though he insisted that she was the clever one. And their marks did show that, but she always wondered how useful all of her book learning would be if they ever got into real trouble. Prior to Halloween, such a thought would never have occurred to her – all through her school days, she had held learning for learning’s sake as the worthiest of goals. Now she was not so sure.

Harry was a mystery in many ways, even if in others, she could read him clear as any book. He was a study in contrasts, and though Hermione thought it probably rude to try to get inside of Harry’s mind, she could scarcely resist. He was an orphan, and aware of it, yet he had been raised by a surrogate parent. He was constantly made aware of what he had done as an infant, yet he could remember none of it, and constantly strove to put himself in a position where one day the deeds he could recall performing might somehow eclipse this moment in his past that was completely out of his control. He was strong, determined, almost frighteningly ruthless for his age at times. 

He would talk to _her_ , would allow himself to show weakness in front of _her_ , but no one else. She sensed that he had been desperate to have someone to drop his mask around.

He was fragile, but wanted no one else to know.

Their friendship had experienced a difficult birth, and there were times when Hermione wondered if Harry was not waiting for her to turn on him as she had before. It hurt, to know that Harry was still, at some deep level that he might not even be aware of, suspicious of her. She wanted to be his friend, his best friend, a person who was always there for him, and would help him and fight beside him, come what may. She wondered…she sometimes wondered if she was meant to be exactly where she was, at the side of the Boy-Who-Lived.

She had wanted to be in Gryffindor, it was true, because she had read about Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall and known they had worn the scarlet and gold in their schooldays. But she would have been happy in Ravenclaw, and she had told the Sorting Hat as much. Yet, her first wish had been granted, and there was something in the knowing tone of the Hat that day that made her wonder why.

And so here she was, months later, chatting a bit with an older Ravenclaw, a fifth year named Ellis Graham, while her Slytherin friend watched the countryside fly past. Ellis seemed a friendly chap, and introduced his friends and housemates Emily Ryder and Greg Derrin. Harry eventually joined the conversation, and to both his and Hermione’s relief, their compartment mates were tactful enough not to ask Harry about his history or indeed anything terribly out of the ordinary, though Hermione did catch Emily trying to get a glimpse of Harry’s now-famous scar, mostly obscured by his messy fringe. If Harry noticed, it didn’t show.

As they pulled into Platform 9 ¾ that afternoon, Harry finally seemed to fully return to the world of the living. It looked as though he had been sleeping for part of their journey, but there was something very troubling behind his eyes. His smile as he gathered up his things did not quite reach them.

The platform was abuzz with activity as they alighted. All around them, parents tenderly greeted sons and daughters, families were reunited, and students said their farewells to their classmates. Hermione quickly located her own parents, her mother looking nervously at the ground, her father wearing a look that was meant to seem relaxed at times when he was anything but. “Mum, Dad!” Hermione cried. Her mother heard her first, and tapping Daniel Granger on the shoulder, they both made their way over through the throngs of witches and wizards.

She looked around for her friend, who she found wrapped in the arms of his guardian. Daphne met her eyes for a moment, and gave her a warm smile. Hermione tried not to stare at the jagged scars that marred what might have otherwise been stunning features. Her first meeting with Daphne had been brief, rushed, and unnerving. She could see the love that existed between guardian and ward, aunt and nephew, almost mother and son. But this haunted woman still gave her the chills. _And what Harry said about how he came to live with her…he was holding something back, I just know it._

Shaking herself out of that thought, she walked over to her parents and embraced them in turn, then brought them over to meet Harry and Daphne. They had been joined by another woman, an elegant middle-aged witch with thin streaks of grey through her raven-black hair. 

Her father, not waiting for her, quickly introduced himself.

“It’s very nice to meet you,” Daphne replied, even offering a friendly smile. “I’m Harry’s guardian, Daphne, and this is an old friend of mine, Andromeda. Harry spoke often of your daughter in his letters. I had a chance to meet her before, although under less-than-ideal circumstances,” she explained. Hermione’s mother shot her daughter a worried glance, and the Gryffindor immediately began to formulate an explanation for Daphne’s words worthy of a cunning Slytherin. Maybe Harry had rubbed off on her a bit after all.

Her mother was now introducing herself to Harry, who had banished the haunted look from his eyes. “It’s very nice to meet you, Mrs. Granger. And Mr. Granger,” he said, offering a hand. Hermione’s father looked down at him with an odd intensity, and she realized that there might be other conversations needed later. 

“We’ve heard a lot about you, Harry,” her father said stiffly. “It is nice to have a chance to meet you at last.” He shook Harry's hand firmly.

“And you as well,” Harry replied with painful politeness. “Your daughter’s been a great friend, a real life-saver.”

It took every ounce of self-control Hermione had not to wince horribly at those words.

“Harry’s been a good friend to me as well,” she told her father, happily but with a certain edge in her voice. “He’s been a real help with everything.”

“Ah, good,” her father replied, not sounding at all convinced. _Oh yes, there’s a talk coming_. _Maybe even ‘the’ talk_ , she thought with mounting horror.

Trying to get her mind as far away from _there_ as she could, Hermione smiled uncertainly at the woman introduced as Andromeda.

“Don’t be shy,” the older witch said. “I’ve known Daphne for a long time, though this is the first time we’ve seen each other in many years. Are you enjoying your first year?”

“I am,” she said, and it was true enough now. “There’s so many things to learn, and so many amazing resources. I just want to spend hours talking with my professors.”

The older woman laughed. “I expect you are in Ravenclaw, then?”

Hermione shook her head. “Nearly. But Gryffindor.”

The older witch nodded. “Ah, well, I was an Eagle, you see. But my daughter was a Badger, so such things aren’t terribly important. It’s nice to see someone your age approach your studies so eagerly.”

“That’s our Hermione,” her father said, patting her proudly on the shoulder. She felt herself going slightly red. Harry flashed her a sly half smile as he continued talking to her mother, and she vowed she would get him back for that. “She’s always been the best in her class.”

“Quiet, Dad,” Hermione hissed. She knew she was intelligent; she didn’t need everyone to go around boasting about it.

Her mother came to her rescue. “Oh, Daniel, can’t you see you’re embarrassing our poor girl? We’d best be going anyway – we have a long drive back home.”

Hermione looked at Harry, who walked towards her, and they threw their arms around one another almost simultaneously.

“ _I’m going to miss you something awful_ ,” Hermione whispered, feeling tears welling in her eyes.

“Me too,” he said, and it was possible that his voice broke slightly. “Take care of yourself. Write if you get a chance, okay _?”_

“Of course, Harry.” She squeezed him once more, and then let go, not wanting to meet his eyes for fear she might break down, and _t_ _hat_ would lead to some very awkward conversations. Harry turned away just as quickly, swiping harshly at his eyes. _He never likes to show weakness in public_ , she thought sadly.

At last they said their goodbyes, and Hermione guided her parents back through the illusory entrance to Platform 9 3/4 into the main concourse, then out of the station. They had just gotten in the car when her father spoke again. 

“So, this Harry boy…he’s pretty special to you, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” she replied, cautiously.

Secretly she thought: _You have_ no _idea._

 

 

“Bye Hermione!” Harry called. She waved excitedly at him before disappearing into the crowd with her parents in tow.

Daphne fixed him with a curious look. “That seemed a bit awkward,” she said. “What was the problem?”

Harry winced. “I think…they probably don’t know what to make of me right now. Hermione wrote some things earlier that made me sound a bit, well, stalkerish, and she’s not sure that they have completed accepted that things are really different with us now.”

“Ah,” Daphne said. “That makes more sense. And she can’t explain _why_ things have changed, because she’s worried that if they knew how dangerous the magical world is that they might not let her come back?”

Harry nodded. 

“It’s a pity, really,” Daphne’s dark-haired companion said. “Our world is wondrous, but there is no denying that it is a dangerous place, especially for children. I’m surprised that more Muggleborns don’t get a magical education due to the objections of their parents. Most of them don’t understand how much more physical punishment wizards and witches can take. Or more importantly, how extensive and quick magical healing is.” 

“That may not matter to them, if the dangers are present at all,” Daphne pointed out. She seemed lost for a second, but quickly recovered. “But I’m remiss in my duties! Harry, this is Andromeda Tonks, one of my oldest friends. We met at the Ministry after I finished Hogwarts.”

“Lovely to meet you,” Harry said, offering a hand. Andromeda had the aristocratic bearing and grace of a pureblood witch, but her smile was warm and genuine, with none of the icy distance he had come to associate with people of similar backgrounds. Her blue eyes were kind and welcoming.

“You as well, Harry. I won’t ask if you have enjoyed your first year – I understand that things had not been going well.” She sighed. “And I cannot say I am surprised you have encountered such hostility in Slytherin House. In my day, at least, most of the Slytherins were rather unpleasant people, though there were a few decent sorts, as there always are. My sister was one of the worst of the lot. And it cost her everything, in the end.” A dark shadow passed over the woman's features, and something clicked in his mind. 

“Ah, yes,” Daphne said, nervously, before he could speak. “I should probably explain. Harry, Tonks is Andi’s married name. Her maiden name is…”

“Black,” Harry finished. “And your sister, then, would be Bellatrix Lestrange?”

“Yes,” Andromeda replied, a bit harshly. “However, while I’m impressed by your knowledge of pureblood lineages, I’d rather not talk about these things in the open.”

 _Or at all_ was left unspoken. 

“Of course,” Harry said, gathering up his trunk. “Shall we go, then?”

 

  

Harry had wondered how exactly they were going to get from King's Cross back to the Devon countryside, site of the Dresslers’ ancestral home, but evidently Daphne had made arrangements. Those plans did involve travelling to a small home in a neighbourhood called Hammersmith on the London Underground, which was a new experience for Harry. Daphne seemed to have some idea of what she was doing, and she had turned up wearing denim trousers and a jumper under her robes, but Andromeda was somewhat conspicuous in her elegant wizarding attire.

While she (and Daphne) attracted a bit of attention, they managed to make it several Tube stops without incident. Harry had let Hedwig fly home on her own, which probably helped. 

They got off at a busy station, and Daphne led them through the crowds, back into the open air, and then up the road to a small row house. His guardian knocked twice, and the door cracked open. “Hello? Can I help you?” an elderly-sounding voice called.

“Melinda, it’s us,” Daphne said cheerfully. An older woman with hair that was nearly white but for streaks of light brown met them, looking over Harry curiously.

She brightened as she recognized them. “Oh, yes, you had mentioned you might come this way, my dear. Are you sure you can’t stay for a chat?”

“I’m afraid not,” Daphne said. Then, turning to him, “Harry, Andi, this is Melinda Tucker. She’s a…well…” 

“I believe the term that I’ve heard used is _Muggle_ ,” the woman said haughtily, but smiled. “A rather strange word, but you are a rather strange folk. As for how I know Daphne and who you all are, well, that’s another tale for another time.”

Andromeda looked greatly intrigued. “I’ll have to insist that Daphne share it with us sometime, then.”

“Melinda was a friend of my mother’s. When she was still a young witch, she gave Melinda a silver pendant. It was the sister to another pendant, one that resided in O’Connor Sanctuary before…it was destroyed,” Daphne explained, and Harry saw a jagged crack appear in her composed and confident façade.

It was gone just as quickly. “It’s a portkey, but a very special kind. One that links not to a location, but to another portkey. One currently installed on the hearth in Dressler Manor. I have taken the precaution of re-activating the anti-Apparition wards, but this will allow us to access the Manor directly.”

She continued. “It’s a bit primitive, I’ll admit, but I would scarcely pass up a chance to see Melinda." A genuine smile lit her face. “She’s a _very_ old friend of the family, and someone that you should remember, if you ever find yourself in need.” She directed the last to Harry himself. 

“You’re far too kind, Daphne,” the older woman replied. “But your mother was a dear friend, and I owed her a debt. I intend to pay it by aiding her only daughter and her ward.”

This Muggle had known Daphne’s mother? Harry was somewhat shocked. He knew nothing about Daphne’s family except their names from a record of the last war. Hester Logan and Aurelius, they had been called. Daphne never spoke of them, and he knew they had been killed while she was still attending Hogwarts.

Daphne and Andromeda again declined the kind old woman’s offer of tea. Harry thanked her graciously, and she smiled fondly at him as they prepared to go. 

Harry could feel a wave of magical power pass over him as they successfully passed through the inner wards of Dressler Manor. It had been built as Tudor manor house, a splendid red-brick structure with four identical towers, subsequently augmented with a fine Palladian façade.

Above the great front entrance was a marble relief of two clashing deer, antlers furiously entwined. Daphne had told him the story behind that particular element of the history of her late husband’s family – the Dresslers had risen to prominence at the expense of another venerable bloodline, the Sedgewicks, who had been dying out. As a gesture of good faith, one of Edmund’s ancestors had wed his eldest son to the only daughter of the Sedgewick patriarch. When Roger Dressler had told his new wife of his wish to build a new family house to celebrate their union, the Lady Elaine had cheekily replied that her late father would only agree if he took pains to show that there would always be disagreement between them.

Below the coat of arms was the family motto, coined hundreds of years ago by Desmond Dressler, a great collector of manuscripts and a one-time patron of a local monastery. “ _Suos Cultores Scientia Coronat_ ,” it read. “Knowledge crowns those who seek her.” Harry wished the old library built by the man who had coined the motto had survived to this day. So much of the past had been lost to war and fire, Muggle and magical alike.

As they came into the foyer, the house-elves were instantly at their side, offering to take their coats, and Flappy quickly disappeared with Harry’s trunk. He looked around curiously for the other guest that was supposed to be staying with them.

His unspoken questions were quickly answered by a series of crashing sounds and curses. “Oh _bugger,_ ” a female voice swore. 

Andromeda laughed softly, and Harry ran to find the source of the racket.

Lying sprawled at the foot of the stairs, surrounded by the remnants of what had probably been a vase or some other valuable and ancient family possession, in front of the upturned polished oak stand that the now former object had probably been perched on, was one of the strangest looking girls Harry had ever seen. She was definitely older than him, but gangling, with a pale heart-shaped face presently flushed in embarrassment. When she looked up at him, he saw that her short and spiked bubble-gum pink hair was paired with blindingly yellow eyes. “Oh, wotcher,” she said, dusting herself off and offering a hand. “I’m…uh…”

“This is my daughter Nymphadora, Harry.”

“Mum, didja have to introduce me like that?” she whined. “Tonks,” she said, grasping Harry’s hand. "Call me Tonks. Or else.”

“Nymphadora was a beautiful name for my beautiful daughter,” Andromeda said, plainly exasperated. “And you will wear it, proudly, for as long as you live in my house, young woman.” 

“Hopefully won’t be too much longer,” she whispered to Harry. “I’ve got my eyes on a real nice flat in the city, if I can _just_ find a flatmate to go along with it.”

“Mmhmm,” Andromeda said, unconvinced. “And when I see your messy signature on the lease, you can call yourself Morgana le Fay for all I care. But not a moment sooner.”

Daphne looked entertained by this little squabble, but came to the rescue of the pouting Auror trainee. “Andi, why don’t we leave the kids to get to know one another better? I’ll put the kettle on. You two go, explore this old place.” She paused, and a shadow seemed to pass over her marred face. “If you find anything locked, I would ask that you leave it that way.”

“Sure thing!” Tonks replied cheerfully. “C’mon Harry, we’re going exploring!” She screwed up her face in concentration, and her appearance began to change. She looked at him again with dark brown eyes and mousy brown hair cut just above her shoulders. “Seems to me that I ought to get to know people looking like my natural self,” she explained, as they ascended the great wooden staircase that she had apparently just fallen down. 

Nympha…Tonks was dressed quite oddly for someone with her illustrious family background, in patched denim trousers and a ratty purple _Weird Sisters_ T-shirt. “So, we can do some exploring later, but first, you and I should get to know each other, yeah? I’m staying in one of the rooms up here. Next to yours, I think. Well, Daphne’s directions were a bit vague, but I found the one next to the one that looked most recently lived in. Unless you’d rather get settled in, first, of course? Sorry, where are my manners?” 

Harry waited until she had run out of breath. “I think I’d be alright with either one, really.”

“Oh, trust you to be indecisive. The Great Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived…” 

“I would _really_ prefer that you don’t call me that,” Harry said, some coldness creeping into his voice. 

Tonks was taken aback for a moment. “Oh, sorry. Mum always said I had the tact of an elephant, _and_ I make more noise than one, to boot.” 

“So you’re a Metamorphmagus then,” Harry said, opening the door to his room. Well, after a fashion. It had belonged to Edmund Dressler’s uncle when he was a boy, but besides the dark blue hangings, and a great bronze eagle in flight affixed to the wall, it was quite basic, if certainly antique. His trunk sat at the foot of the bed. He sat on it gently as Tonks came in and closed the door. He raised an eyebrow. She also seemed to have ignored his mention of her abilities.

“I swear Mum eavesdrops on me,” she explained. “That’s the only way she could know some of the things she knows.” She took a long look at him. “S’not everyday you get to meet a hero of your childhood,” she remarked. “Don’t worry though, I outgrew that a while ago. You’re a scrawny little thing, aren’t you?”

“And you’re clumsy enough to be a danger to the contents of the house,” Harry retorted.

“Touché,” she said, wincing. Then she smiled. “So, Hogwarts, then? How’s your first year been?”

Harry sighed. “Memorable. Just often not in good ways. I’ve nearly died twice.”

Tonks’ eyes went a bit wide with that. “Blimey, and I thought my time at Hogwarts was eventful. Hmmm…I’d peg you for a Gryffindor, then, getting into trouble like that.”

Harry shook his head.

“Ah, Ravenclaw, then? Like me mum?”

He shook his head again. 

“Huh. Hufflepuff, really?” 

“Slytherin,” Harry replied softly.

“Oh,” Tonks said, seeming a bit taken aback. “Well, ain’t that something, I wasn’t expecting that. _Slytherin_ , truly? You’re having me on…”

“No, I’m not,” Harry said, raising his voice in frustration. “I’m a Slytherin, and Merlin knows it’s made my life a living hell at times, but I am where I am, and I can’t change that.”

Tonks raised her hands. “It’s alright, Harry. I’m just surprised is all. And yeah, I know what you mean. S’funny, actually; everybody thought I was a bit of a freak. Like you said, I’m a Metamorphmagus. Which means a lot of things, really, but mostly that I’m different from just about everybody. And I was a Hufflepuff, to boot!”

Harry frowned. “Is there something bad about being in Hufflepuff?”

“Not really,” Tonks said. “I mean, it’s a good House, full of real decent, fun people. But everybody looks down on us, thinks we’re a bunch of rejects who weren’t smart enough for Ravenclaw, or cunning enough for Slytherin, or brave enough for Gryffindor. S’not true. But, you know, being loyal and hard-working aren’t exactly shiny traits you can go brag about. So I was ‘that freaky Tonks girl in Hufflepuff’ for the better part of three years.”

Harry nodded, but was somewhat unimpressed by the former Badger’s travails compared to his own. Tonks seemed to sense as much. “I reckon there’s no point in getting into a pissing contest to figure out who had it the worst.”

Harry rubbed his shoulder, which was still sore from being hammered by Goyle’s fist after an ‘accident’ in the Slytherin Common Room. “Alright.” 

Tonks rolled her eyes. “You think you can fool me, going to your shoulder like that? Lemme see.”

“You really don’t want to,” Harry said, but couldn’t find the will to resist her insistent gesticulations and raising of eyebrows. He pulled his collar down, where the evidence of Goyle’s leaving present stood out on his skin. 

“That looks nasty.” Tonks sighed. “I take it that _wasn’t_ a spot of clumsiness on your part? My body’s always bruised and broken, but it’s usually me own fault. Ever since my talents started developing, my sense of balance has been outright dreadful. I can dance, though, right as you like.” 

He said nothing, and she frowned at him, letting go of his arm. “Hey, Harry, I’m just trying to get to know you a bit better. Trying to find some common ground, eh? I know it hasn’t been a great time for you, but you _are_ home now, and believe you me, it’s fun to have somebody like you to spend time with. Was kind of a worried you’d be an annoying little brat, but I’m pretty sure I was wrong.” 

Harry smiled a bit. “We’ll see about that.” 

“Hey, there’s a sign of life from Harry!” Tonks exclaimed in mock astonishment. “So, it can’t have been all bad, can it? Come on, tell me your favourite bits about Hogwarts!”

Harry thought about it. “Well, I love the Library…don’t look at me like that.”

The older girl sighed dramatically. “Great, I get a nerd, instead of a brat. Well, we’ve got something in common then, ‘cause back in my trunk are a half a dozen Auror manuals the size of your head that I gotta have read and analysed by the time the holiday’s over. Anything else? Heard you play Quidditch? Not really my thing – don’t fancy breaking my neck." 

“It’s good,” Harry said. “It was…difficult, at first, but I’ve ended up as the starting Seeker for Slytherin. And Flint’s only threatened to skin me twice, whereas Bletchley and Bole are on nine or ten by now. I think he actually kind of likes me. For my talent, of course – he doesn’t really do the socializing thing.”

She snorted in a most unladylike fashion. “Heh, sounds like a real joy to be around. You know, I do know a bit about how what nasty pieces of work Slytherins can be – I mean, you know Mum’s family, right? The Blacks?” 

When he nodded, she continued. “Well, I’m sort of an insult to them – a half-blood coming out of a famous line like that, so they all hated me when they weren't pretending I didn't exist. Not that I wanted anything to do with Mum’s family – a bunch of Death Eaters and Dark witches and wizards of the worst kind! I mean, one of Mum’s sisters is in Azkaban, and one’s a Malfoy!” 

Harry had to laugh a bit at Tonks' equivalence.

“And then there was my second cousin, you know, Siri…” She clamped down her mouth all of a sudden, flushing pink. 

Harry stared at her. “Who?” 

“S’nothing. Don’t worry yourself about it.”

“It’s not nothing, Tonks,” Harry said firmly. He generally knew when someone was hiding something from him, and Tonks had nearly blurted it out.

Tonks looked oddly terrified, but shook her head firmly. “He wasn’t a good man; I’m not going to tell you anymore." 

He considered pushing her more, but decided it probably wasn’t worth the effort. He could do his own research. “Alright,” Harry said, giving in. “So you are cousins with Draco then, aren’t you?”

“Could never stand that arrogant little git,” Tonks practically spat. “You know, after me dad left, Mum actually got invited to come around to the Malfoys' and get a chance to get back into the family, as it were. ‘course Cissy, her sister, ended up asking her to leave after a while, but I was stuck in a room for twenty minutes with the little brat, barely six years old. My jaw hurt from keeping my mouth shut when Mum finally said we were leaving.”

“He’s one of my roommates,” Harry told her. “He’s rather…unpleasant. Has a pair of boys that do most of his dirty work.” 

“Yeah, that sounds right,” Tonks said, sighing. She smiled nastily. “’course, a Malfoy would never sink so low as to punch somebody, but if he pays another bloke to do it for him, well that’s okay, isn’t it? Little hypocritical gits” she fumed. 

Harry had to nod at that. 

Before they could continue their verbal abuse of Harry’s classmates and their families, there was a call from downstairs. “Nymmy! Harry! Dinner!”

Tonks made a face. Harry mouthed, ‘Nymmy?’ and she glared daggers at him. 

“Don’t you _ever_ call me Nymmy, or I’ll hex some parts off you that you haven’t even had the chance to use properly yet.” The look in her eyes, which seemed to be genuinely smoldering, was absolutely terrifying. 

Harry gulped. “Alright then.”

Dinner was pleasant enough. Andromeda and Daphne looked very pleased to see how well the young ones were getting on as they chatted amiably about classes and professors through the meal. Harry nearly choked when they inevitably reached the subject of Snape, and Tonks described the shade of puce that his face had turned after she had, through a feat of ‘accidental’ clumsiness, managed to brew and spill a potion that began eating its way through his clothing, revealing the sickly pale flesh beneath. Daphne coughed into her napkin while Andromeda closed her eyes and sighed.

Daphne asked a few probing questions about his time at Hogwarts, though she avoided mentioning the troll or, in so many words, the bullying she knew he had experienced. She did ask about his relationship with Dumbledore. The answer Harry gave was somewhat incomplete, as he said nothing about his encounter before the Mirror of Erised. It was pretty clear that Daphne knew he was holding back, yet she nodded politely and did not push him further. She said nothing about Snape, but was pleased to hear that Professor Sinistra had been kind to him, and that he was now much closer with Hagrid. He eventually mentioned Hermione, and he saw a gleam of something evil in Tonks’ eyes. He could only imagine what would be coming from the young Auror trainee, who, perhaps as punishment for mocking her mum’s name for her, had affected shoulder length black hair, emerald green eyes, thick eyebrows, and his somewhat angular nose.

Sooner or later, he knew, he would have to have a lengthy conversation with Daphne about his first months at Hogwarts, and he was not looking forward to it. Some of the things he had heard whispered in the corridors of the castle, occasionally by people he knew and liked, had unnerved him. Daphne had always been a mother to him, someone he could look up to and model himself after. He knew she had a dark past – between her scars and the glazed look in her eyes when certain subjects came up, he had known that for a long time. But he knew Daphne. He did not know ‘The Grey Maiden,’ a legendary Auror equal parts renowned and feared by all.

 

 

After dinner, Harry excused himself and decided to visit the library. He hoped that a perusal of the shelves might possibly turn up a book or two that would go some way towards solving the mystery of this Nicholas Flamel, and what Dumbledore might be hiding inside the walls of Hogwarts. What he and Hermione would do with that information was very much an open question, but something within Harry’s young mind simply would not let him rest until he had his answers. He quickly discovered that the manor’s library, while much reduced from its former glory, was even more promising than he had hoped – an enchanted piece of parchment could act as a searching tool for the entire magical index of books. Clearly someone in the Dressler family had spent a lot of time cataloguing the contents of this room.

Glancing over his shoulder to where the door stood just slightly ajar, he dipped a quill in ink and scratched out the words ‘ _Nicholas Flamel_.’ The letters glowed white for a moment, and then he grinned as several leather-bound tomes flew from their spots on the shelves and piled themselves neatly on the great desk. He reached for the first one, peeling back the cover of a tattered and battered volume with the words, ‘On the State of the Science of Alchemie’ in embossed letters marked with faded gold leaf.

Harry looked up again, listening closely in case anyone was coming. He carefully opened the tome, hoping for a semi-modern table of contents or an index. He was in luck – the printing was nineteenth century according to the printer’s seal on the inside cover. He found a list of headings accompanied by Roman numerals. Tracing his finger over the paper, he found _On the Witches and Wizards of Old…_ and glanced down to see if there were any subheadings. … _alchemie_ …pages 134-36, 215… _family_ … _wife Pernelle_... Harry decided to start at the earliest reference he could find, knowing his time was short. Daphne knew him well, and might suspect he would be up to something.

He opened up to the relevant pages, and read. 

_…and it would be a folly indeed to neglect the work of Nicholas Flamel (born in the year of our Lord Thirteen Hundred and Thirty). The science of Alchemie will be forever indebted to his lifetime’s work leading to his most renowned achievement, that being his creation of…_

Suddenly the book slammed shut, nearly catching his fingers, and jerked away from him, flying off the desk and thumping onto the floor. He spun around, and saw Daphne standing in the doorway in her emerald robes, her face a rictus of fury. He flinched back.

“Daphne…” he began lamely.

She shook her head. “I don’t want to hear it. _Accio_ book,” she said, and the fallen volume soared into her left hand. She looked down and sighed. “As I thought. Harry, come away from the desk. Now.”

He did as he was told, slumping towards her like a scolded child, which, he supposed, accurately described his situation at that moment.

Daphne looked down on him. He suddenly felt a light dancing touch on his mind, and recoiled backwards in surprise. Daphne _never_ used her Legilimency without his express permission. He felt his anger rising at the intrusion. 

“Sorry,” she said, though it did not really sound like she meant it. “I needed to know what you had been doing. Ordinarily I would have asked you, but…it was rather important that I had the truth.” She closed her eyes and blew out a breath. “Harry, I know what you and Hermione are trying to do, and I am telling you now to let it go. You are dabbling in dangerous matters best left to those with far more training and experience than either of you. Certain secrets are meant to be kept, especially from the curious minds of children. Do you understand me?”

Harry bowed his head. “Yes. I’m sorry.”

Daphne chuckled a bit. “No, you’re not. Not really. And that’s fine, I wouldn’t expect you to understand where I am coming from.” Her tone turned deadly serious again. “Harry, I have been responsible for you since your parents died, and I love you with all of my heart. I cannot -  _will not -_  allow you to endanger your life like this. Or the lives of your friends.” 

Harry threw his hands out in frustration. “I don’t understand! What’s so important? _Why_ is it dangerous? What could Professor Dumbledore possibly be hiding in Hogwarts that has you worried so much?”

Daphne shook her head. “Harry, it is simply not for you to know at this point. And at the very least, I will not allow you to take advantage of the resources here to facilitate putting yourself in danger. So I’m sorry Harry, but you are not allowed in the library unsupervised while you are here, and that does _not_ include Nymphadora, do you understand? If you wish to find books on more…appropriate subjects, you will come to me, and I will be in here and will inspect everything that you take off the shelves. Am I clear?”

“Yes ma’am,” Harry replied, trying not to sound sullen.

Daphne sighed. “Harry, I’m just trying to keep you safe. You nearly _died_ from being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Harry glared at her. “Would you rather I’d left Hermione?” he snapped.

Daphne rolled her eyes. “Of course not, Harry. I would rather that _neither_ of you had been out of the Great Hall when that troll appeared. But that’s water under the bridge now. You did what you did, and it almost killed you, but you gained a friend, and that’s something whose value cannot be easily measured.” 

Harry nodded at that. 

His guardian placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You should be going to bed soon, Harry. I’ve seen the bags under your eyes, and it’s been a long day. You are _home_ now. You will be in a bed that you can call your own, with no roommates to give you any trouble.” 

“Yeah,” he said, pleased by the thought. She leaned forward and kissed him on the temple. 

“Andi and I will be up for another hour or so catching up, but I believe Nymphadora has already gone back to her room. You should visit her to say goodnight." She smiled. “I’m glad to see I was right about the two of you getting along.”

“She’s…something,” Harry admitted. “We have more in common than I thought.”

“The basis for any lasting friendship,” Daphne said wisely. “Now run along. I’m going to have to put wards on this room, Harry because…it’s not that I don’t trust you…but I don’t trust you. Do you understand?”

He nodded. “You’re afraid my curiosity might overcome my good sense.”

“Precisely.” She laughed a bit. “Sometimes you do act far beyond your years, Harry. And sometimes you remind me that I should not look at you as anything more than my foolish little boy. And I mean that in the best possible way. Away with you, now.”

It was a backhanded compliment to be sure, but he knew what she was trying to say. “’Night Daphne.” 

“Goodnight _you_ ,” she said, ruffling his hair. He scowled and left, as Daphne began incanting complex spells. He shut the door behind him, a vague feeling of disappointment running through his mind. 

Harry walked up the spiral staircase to the second floor, and headed for his room. He saw Tonks, dressed in purple pyjamas, this time with long dark brown hair and blue eyes. She appeared extremely sleepy. “Wotcher Harry,” she yawned. 

“Hey, Tonks,” Harry replied weakly.

She frowned. “What’s going on? You don’t look happy.”

“Daphne caught me looking for something she feels I should have left alone.”

“Ooh? What?” Tonks asked. There was slightly terrifying manic gleam in the older girl’s eyes. 

He shook his head. “Nothing like that…It’s best I don’t ask you, or I’ll get in more trouble. I’ve already been banned from the library without Daphne’s supervision.” He tried not to let the bitterness show, and mostly failed. 

Tonks frowned. “That’s a _punishment_?” 

Harry nodded.

Tonks stared at him. “You are a strange kid, Harry. Sure you’re not a Ravenclaw?”

“Positive. My life would have been a whole lot easier if I were.”

The older girl went on, “O’course everybody would expect you to be a Gryffindor – the whole defeating the Dark Lord thing. I mean, no offence, but you don’t really seem to be all that different from other kids your age.”   

Harry scowled at that. “I happen to feel differently.”

She shook her head. “Nah, you’re right there. You’re definitely an odd bird at eleven, but, what I meant was, you don’t have crazy powers or anything like that. You’re just another first year wizard. There’s so many stories that have built up around you, you know. All kinds of madness about how Dumbledore possessed you, or you’re Merlin reborn or something like that. At some point it's gonna come out that I spent the hols with Harry Potter, and I’ll have my friends all over me, asking what you’re like, and they’ll expect to hear these wild tales.”

“I did take on a mountain troll,” Harry pointed out.

Tonks squinted at him.

“I lost,” he admitted. “Pretty badly. That was one of the times I almost died.” 

“Blimey, Harry, you weren’t kidding when you said that?” Tonks seemed genuinely shocked.

What trace of levity remained in Harry’s voice quickly left. “I don’t joke about that sort of thing, Tonks.” 

“Yeah, I suppose you wouldn’t. Still, can’t blame a girl for not being sure, can you?”

Harry nodded. “It means a lot to me that you are _trying_ to understand who I am, really - Everyone else just makes their assumptions about me and doesn’t bother to find out if they were right.” 

Tonks frowned. “Well, they’re probably a bit scared of you. Lots of Slytherins are nasty pieces of work. And you being the one who defeat You-Know-Who and all…I guess they think you could be worse than him? Kinda faulty logic when you think about it – you beat You-Know-Who...”

“And my parents died defending me from him,” Harry interjected. “But some of them honestly think that I’m going to be just like him. I’m a _Slytherin_ , after all, that’s practically a guarantee that I won’t be a good person.” Harry’s eyes stung with unexpected tears. He tried to blink them away as he continued. “But I’m not like that. Not at all. If they’d get their thick heads out of the mud and actually look, they might realize that. I don’t like being feared, Tonks. I want them to respect me, sure. But for people to avoid passing near me, to point and whisper in hushed voices when I walk down the corridors, and for people to avoid sitting next to me…and now they are doing it to Hermione…that really hurts. And I feel like there’s nothing I can do.” He sighed. “We’ve got friends with the Ravenclaws, but everybody else just treats me – and now her – like we’re cursed or something.”

Tonks gave him a sympathetic pat on the arm. “Hey kid, don’t let a bunch of little judgmental cretins get in your way. Look, I’ve known you for less than a day and I already think these ideas that you’re a Dark wizard are a load of old tosh.” 

“Dark Lord,” Harry said. 

Tonks blinked. “Come again?”

“It’s one thing to be a Dark wizard, another thing entirely to be a Dark Lord.” 

“Yeah, I suppose there probably are a few decent chaps out there who call themselves Dark. I guess that probably isn’t fair. But one’s a lot more likely to _lead_ to the other, you gotta admit that, surely?”

Harry shrugged. “Probably. I just remember that Gellert Grindelwald was a Gryffindor.”

Tonks shrugged. “People put too much stock in those things. The House you’re sorted into reflects who you are at age eleven, and a bit of who you want to be. People change. I never would have thought – and neither would anyone else – that I might be Auror material. But you know what? I’m a year or two of classes and some exams away from earning my shield.”

Harry took the opportunity to change the subject. “What made you want to be an Auror, anyway?”

“I had a friend at school,” Tonks explained. “You wouldn’t have heard of her – she was a halfblood witch from a pretty obscure family. Her name was Ophelia, which was probably a bad sign to begin with-”

“You’ve read Hamlet?”

“Don’t act so surprised,” Tonks scolded him. “I read, same as anyone else. Plus, Mum gave me a bunch of Muggle books Dad used to have for Christmas a few years in a row and then one day I didn’t have anything else to read so I gave it a go…point being, she died.”

Harry saw something dark in her eyes.

“She was killed, with her dad, in Diagon Alley one evening. Not by Death Eaters, or pureblood supremacists, or any kind of Dark witch or wizard. No, she and her dad were robbed at wand point by a few low-life thugs from Knockturn, and then she tried to fight back while her Dad – the Muggle – went for help. She couldn’t hold them off long, she was just thirteen. The Aurors arrived too late, and by that time, she was gone and her dad wasn’t far behind.”

Tonks took a deep breath, and he could see the fierce determination shining in her blue eyes, which almost shimmered red as she became more agitated. “And I swore to myself that I would never let that happen to someone else, and from that day, I studied up on Potions and Defence and was determined to get on the Auror track. Took some doing to convince Professor Sprout, mind you. I didn’t really take…well, _anything_ seriously before fourth year.” 

“But you won her over.”

“That I did,” Tonks said proudly. She snorted. “It’s a bit of a laugh, really. I kinda sold it to her with the idea that I could use my being a Metamorphmagus to help with infiltration and the like. Slight problem there, though.”

“You’re clumsy as a blind baby giraffe?” 

“Got it in one,” Tonks said, grinning. “For the same reasons that it might have been a good idea to go into surveillance and infiltration, it turned out to be the worst idea. But that’s my life for you. I’m pretty good with a wand, and I came in third in a duelling competition that was held my sixth year.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a good chance, then.”

“Well, _I_ sure hope so, but I appreciate the seal of approval of the Boy-Who-Lived.”

Harry glared at her. Tonks threw up her hands. “I’m just pulling your leg. You should be along to bed anyway, kiddo. We’ll talk more tomorrow, don’t you worry.” She grinned conspiratorially. “We’re going to have a _very_ fun time here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To reiterate - this was first written before Deathly Hallows came out, so things like Ted Tonks being a loving husband weren't canon at that point. 
> 
> That said, I love writing nineteen-year old Tonks.


	10. A Little Bit of Yuletide Cheer

“So what’s going on with all those books?” They were sat on Tonks' bed, Harry leaning against the backboard while the older girl was sprawled out towards the end.

Tonks winced. “As wicked as it might seem to be an Auror, you've got to be mad to enter the course. Not only do you need top marks, but I suspect they weed out the incompetent candidates by literally burying them under books. I’m going to sound like I swallowed a few encyclopaedias by the end of it.” She made another face.

“But you enjoy it?”

“You betcha,” she said, although with less enthusiasm than might have been convincing. “No really, it’s great, and I’ve wanted to be an Auror for years, it’s just so bloody difficult sometimes that I just start to wonder what on earth I was thinking.” 

“I can understand that.”

Tonks sighed. “So how’s your school work been? Your favourite class is Defence, I bet.”

Harry shook his head. “Not exactly. Professor Quirrell is…well, both very weird, and also a coward. I’m not sure I’ve learned a thing from him.”

Tonks looked a bit shocked by that. “Quirrell was one of the best professors I had,” she said in astonishment. “He’s a bit of a nerd, loves his books, that one, but he knows what he’s doing. You sure we’re not talking about somebody different?” 

“Tall-ish, bald, purple turban? Smells of garlic?”

“Bald, yes, but a turban?” Tonks scratched her head. “I don’t know, Harry. I know people can change a lot over a short period of time but still…and garlic? What's that about?”

“I get the feeling he’s hiding something,” Harry admitted. 

His friend blinked. “What could he possibly be hiding?” 

“I don’t know,” Harry said grimly. “But it feels…fake, what he does. Sometimes he slips, and then catches himself, and it’s back to stuttering and whimpering.”

“This doesn’t sound  _at all_  like the Professor Quirrell who taught my last couple of years,” Tonks said. “We were all really happy to have him. He left, though. Wanted to do some travelling and research in Eastern Europe, I think. Something about vampires.”

“There’s a rumour he had a bad run-in with one, and has been scared out of his wits ever since.”

Tonks shrugged. “Could be, I suppose. Anyway, enough about Quirrell. Any other classes you like? Don’t like?”

“Transfiguration is interesting. And Potions might be, if Snape wasn’t trying to ruin my focus all the time.” 

“And you’re one of  _his_ ,” Tonks marvelled. “Snape’s a right bastard, aye, but he always spoiled his Slytherins. Not you, though?”

Harry shook his head. “It’s something to do with my father. He and Snape were…not on good terms.” 

Tonks frowned. “Long time to be carrying a grudge, specially seeing as…well…”

“I know,” Harry said. “Charms is a bit boring at the moment. And Herbology is not really something I care for either. I really  _want_  to like History of Magic, but…”

“…it’s a hard job staying awake? Oh yeah, I know what you mean. ‘course, I wasn’t all that interested in goblin revolts and magical laws and the like to start with, but I swear I spent more time asleep than awake in that class all seven years I took it.”

“Did you at least have friends to take notes for you?”

Tonks grimaced. “Didn’t really have many of those.” 

Harry was legitimately surprised by that. “What, no friends? You?”

Tonks twisted her hands anxiously. “Well, I mean, Hufflepuffs look after their own, you know, so I had people to talk to, people to eat with, heck, I even snogged a few of them later on – but s’not the same as having real friends, you know? The girls didn’t really like me ‘cause I was too much like a boy, and the boys…well, they were a bit intimidated, I think.”

Harry frowned. “How exactly?”

“Well, first of all, it took ‘em all a while to get used to me being a Metamorphmagus and changing my looks based on my mood and such, you know?” She frowned. “People called me a lot of things. ‘Freak’ was pretty common. And I ‘spose I was, but it didn’t mean they had to be so awful about it! So, you know, I was pretty quiet for a while. That’s probably how I built up the study habits that got me into the Auror course, I reckon, so it was good for something.”

“You? Quiet?" 

Tonks shrugged. "Hey, I can be when I want to be…or, moreso, when I’ve got nobody to talk to. ‘o course, all that changed ‘round…fourth year I guess it would have been…”

Harry blinked. “What changed?”

Tonks' eyes glittered with mischief. “You mean to tell me you can’t guess…well blimey, I became a  _big_  girl.”

Understanding dawned on him, and Harry closed his eyes and nodded frantically. “Okay, okay. I get it.”

“Do you now?” Tonks asked playfully. “Anyway, I started caring about boys, and they started caring about me.” She paused, deep in thought. “Yeah, fourth year is when I dated Charlie for the first time…of many, mind you. And there  _were_  a few girls mixed in there, that was interesting, that was.” 

Harry had a mind to ask but he had gotten stuck a sentence earlier. “Charlie?” 

Tonks got a dreamy look on her face. “Charlie Weasley. Real adventurous kid, outdoorsy, played Quidditch, loved his magical creatures, the bigger the teeth and claws, the better. He and Hagrid got along real well, they did. And those hands…”

Harry frowned. “I know a Weasley. Well, a few. But one is in my year. We aren’t…I don’t like him that much.” 

“Well, Charlie was a bit rough at first too, but then I realized we were just dancing around one another.” 

Harry made a non-committal noise. 

Tonks continued her recollections. “We were on-again, off-again like nobody’s business. We’d fight, we’d get back together, we’d…” the older girl blushed slightly, then shook her head. “Never you mind what we’d do.”

Harry decided he was better off  _not_  knowing those particular details.

Tonks coughed. “…anyway, I dated lots of boys…and a few girls too, like I said, though I dunno if we  _dated_  dated, s’complicated...was a long time ago, though.”

Harry nodded tightly. The Wizarding world’s attitudes towards that sort of thing were…well, they depended on the context. A lot like the Muggle world in that, he gathered.

“Don’t be cheeky with me,” she scowled, apparently misreading his expression. “Besides,  _you_  aren’t that far off from being a teenager.” She leaned towards him conspiratorially. “Got any girls you fancy?” 

Harry spluttered. “No!”

Tonks laughed at him again, tucking her knees up to her chin and rolling backwards. “Oh this is going to be fun,” she said. She rolled forward, reached out and gently took hold of his chin, her eyes a captivating sky blue. “That was a pretty fierce denial, Harry. I think you’re hiding something from your new big sis.”

“I’m not,” Harry protested, trying to wrench her hand away. “It’s not…I like Hermione…a lot, but it isn’t…we aren’t?”

Something lit up in the older girl’s dark eyes. “Ooh,  _Hermione_? That’s a nice name. What’s she like, this girl that you swear you don’t fancy?” 

“She’s…nice. She’s a Muggleborn, a Gryffindor. She was…we weren’t really friends to start out with…and then I distracted a troll that was trying to kill her.”

“And nearly got killed yourself, so I understand it,” Tonks said. “So, what’s she look like? Is she  _cute?_ ”

Harry just glared at her.

“Just kidding, I know she’s brunette with bushy hair and biggish front teeth.”

“Wait…what? How?”

Tonks tapped her forehead. “I just know these things…actually I saw the picture that was sitting on your bed the other day. She seems rather fond of you.” Her voice was teasing and insistent.

Harry was getting increasingly frustrated. “How is it your business what is between me and Hermione?” he demanded.

Tonks cocked her head. “Ooh, so there  _is_  something. Interesting. You’re a bit young yet, but just you wait a few years...”

“ _Tonks!”_

There was a long pause, and then a shout from down the hall.

“Harry? Nymphadora? Is everything alright?”

“Just. Fine. Daphne,” Harry replied, still trying to vaporize the quietly cackling girl in front of him with his furious gaze. It was disappointingly ineffective.

Tonks stuck her tongue out at him. Since it was Tonks, it had become four or five inches longer than usual.

“Has anyone told you that you don’t act your age?” Harry asked dryly.

Tonks scowled at him. “What? I can’t have fun once in a while? I’m nineteen, not ninety.”

Harry crossed his arms. “I think you were having plenty of fun.”

“Just you wait,” she said with manic grin, and closed her eyes.

As her hair grew out and became bushier, Harry put his foot down. “Stop.  _Now_.”

The girl before him was halfway between his self-declared older sister and his best friend. She had the decency to look ashamed. “Sorry, did I go too far?” 

Harry nodded tightly.

She screwed up her eyes in concentration again, and her hair became shoulder-length and purple, her eyes dark. “S’look I’m rather fond of,” she said by way of explanation. “Sorry. I get carried away, you know? It’s been  _ages_  since I was around anybody who didn’t fancy themselves an adult, and well – it all comes out.”

“Hermione  _is_  important to me,” Harry said. “I don’t…I can’t really explain it. She was my first friend at Hogwarts and so much work and sadness and anger went into making that moment. And then I nearly died.” He blinked away the beginnings of tears.  _Not in front of Tonks_ , he told himself. “She’s brilliant, and kind, and she knows me, and understands me, and she did all of that within a few weeks of actually getting to know me for real. I…I don’t know if I like her  _that_  way.”

“That’s an honest answer, and a good ‘un, at that,” Tonks conceded. “I ‘spose you don’t want me making you more confused by looking like her, then?”

“Something like that,” Harry said. 

There was a long awkward pause, and Harry could tell that Tonks was beating herself up. He did it often enough to recognize it in others.

Changing the subject, Harry asked, “So have you met Rufus Scrimgeour?”

Tonks frowned. “Yeah, I have. He’s in charge of all the Aurors. Why do you want to know?”

“Daphne’s mentioned him before. He sounds…interesting.”

Tonks shrugged. “Well, he’s a real stickler when it comes to the Dark Arts. Hates them and everyone who practices them. He won’t hesitate to do something that needs to be done, and he’s got a rather forceful personality. He’s a good politician, too, runs rings around Fudge at times. He’s a legend with the rank and file…then again, you live with a legend, not to mention you _are_ one.”

“Is Daphne really that well known?” Harry asked. A lot of people seemed to know who she was; even Ron did.

“Oh yeah. Finishing Auror training in months will do that. Helped that she killed Evan Rosier and captured a half-dozen of the worst Death Eaters out there toward the end of the war, too. Oh, that reminds me: my entire class wants a full report on you and her when I get back. They’re mad with envy of me getting to spend the holidays with the Grey Maiden and the Boy-Who-Lived.”

“The Grey Maiden?” Harry asked. He’d heard Daphne called that before.

“’s a pretty common name for her.” She stared at him, looking doubtful. “Truly, you didn’t know about it?”

Harry shook his head. “I’ve heard it, but I don’t know where it came from. Daphne doesn’t talk about it, and I don’t ask.”

Tonks looked concerned and wary. “You sure you want to know?”

Harry nodded.

“Alright…well, there’s the  _Grey_  bit…Daphne was a real good Auror, one of the best there was. But, well…she was a bit wild and...independent. She didn’t like to play by the Ministry’s rules of engagement, the ones they teach us in training. She would use spells they didn’t approve of, Unforgivables, even – she’d kill rather than capture, and there’s that whole thing with the McCourns…suppose you don’t know about that either?”

The name was unfamiliar to Harry. “No.”

Tonks hesitated. “Honestly, I think you’d better ask Daphne about that yourself, it was a nasty bit o’ business, it was, and…s’not really my place. Anyway, well, there’s the  _Maiden_  bit, which is a bit of a jape, you know, but well…nobody really saw her getting married, until it had already happened – she and her fiancé were pretty discreet. And then he died, but she never re-married. O’course, she wasn’t around all that long before she took off with you, but somebody slapped the name on her and it stuck.”

“She’s been alone ever since,” Harry confirmed. “Just her and me. I don’t think she’s really wanted anyone else.”

“Yeah, I suppose that it fits better, then. You know how these things work, right Harry? Nicknames? I mean, you never asked to be called the bloody Boy-Who-Lived.”

“Of course not.”

“So yeah, it’s like that. So…” she paused, a bit of concern in her dark eyes. “You know about what Daphne’s done, yeah?”

Harry frowned. “A bit. Daphne said she’s done some pretty terrible things, but that in the end she doesn’t regret any of them.”

Tonks was very serious for a moment. “And that doesn’t bother you? That’s she killed people? And doesn't feel guilty about it?”

“She’s not like that anymore,” Harry said quickly. “She’s been an amazing Mum, and she’s been kind and loving as long as I can remember.” He shrugged, feeling uncomfortable. Being confronted with the reality that Daphne had blood on her hands, even if it was from deserving people, was a bit unnerving. “War does stuff to people, I guess.”

Tonks looked like she wanted to say something else, but let it pass. “Yeah, I reckon it does. Never been in one me-self. Hope it’ll stay that way. Being sorta right in the middle of the post-war generation, I grew up hearing all about it. I was just a kid when it all ended, but I do remember the celebrations. Blimey, there were wizards making a spectacle of themselves all over London. ‘s a miracle that the Statue of Secrecy didn’t go right then and there.”

“I don’t know about any of that.”

“Yeah, I guess you wouldn’t. Bit hard to believe though, I mean, every household on our side raised a glass to you that night. The infant saviour. And then everybody wondered where you’d gotten to, of course.” 

Harry looked at her. “What did you think about all that? At the time.”

“Hard to say, I was just a girl, don’t remember stuff outside of major events, you know? I mean, Mum was really relieved – we’d been in hiding for over a year, ‘cause of our family and all that.”

“Is it just you and your Mum, then?” Harry asked.

Tonks made a disgusted face. “Well, I had a dad, obviously, a Muggleborn…dunno, Mum never talks about him much. She loved him, but he lived a little…too free for her tastes. Blew a whole bunch of gold betting on Quidditch, and got Mum right cross at him. Haven’t seen him since, and I don’t think Mum misses him much. What about you? What’s life like with the Grey Maiden?”

Harry smiled, back on familiar territory. “Daphne’s been the best mother I could have asked for. I had some friends back in Newfoundland, well, later on. I was a bit of a loner for a while. I guess that was when I started to read so much.”

“Keep in touch?”

“A bit.” Harry had received a season’s greetings card from Patricia’s family, and his friend had scrawled a note asking him about his time at Hogwarts, and telling him a bit about her school in Ottawa. Connor, who had always been terrible at responding to letters and communicating in any way that was not face-to-face, had not been heard from.

“That’s good. So, did Daphne teach you lots of magic, then?”

Harry hesitated. “She made sure I was ready for anything." 

Tonks nodded knowingly. “Quite a bit, then. Well, that only makes sense, given everything else.”

They continued along much less charged topics until Daphne called them for dinner. Harry realized he had spent most of the day sitting on the older girl’s bed. 

He was growing rather fond of her, actually.

 

 

Harry and Tonks continued to spend a great deal of time in one another’s company. The older girl seemed to relish every opportunity she had to tease him about his friendship with Hermione. To be fair, she was clearly holding herself back now, knowing how important that relationship was to Harry.

Still, things only got worse when Hedwig soared through his open window bearing a letter. He was curious at that, given that he had let the snowy owl out to hunt a few days ago, but had never sent her anywhere in particular. She looked at him reproachfully until he had dug a tin of owl treats out of his trunk and offered one to her. He scratched her behind the ears as he untied his familiar’s burden.

Tonks glanced up from where she was sprawled on a rug, a large book of regulations lying neglected in front of her. “And who’s that from, I wonder?” 

Harry glanced at the letter, and felt himself go a bit red.

In neat but girlish handwriting were the words:  _To Harry_ and _From Hermione._

“You’ve been pretty far, haven’t you girl?” Hedwig glanced at him briefly and hooted in confirmation, before returning to consuming her owl treat. Hermione lived with her parents in Norwich.

Tonks had somehow risen without alerting him, although he was aware of her as she stumbled trying to get around him to look over his shoulder. Trying to keep her at bay with one arm, he ripped open the letter with the other and his teeth. The letter fell to the floor, where Tonks was on it like a cat, her eyes growing wide as she saw who it was from. “Tonks, give me that letter.”

She batted her eyelids innocently. “Why of course, Harry dear. Here you go,” she said, offering it to him. She did not let go when he grabbed it. “Of course, I’d love to know all about your little crush and what she says to you. ’m sure it’s full of sweet nothings and such.” She finally relaxed her grip.

Harry found himself blushing furiously as he wrestled the letter away from the older girl, and retreated to his desk to read the contents. Tonks returned to her book, but her eyes were fixed on him, a half-smile, almost menacing, marking her features.

 

 _Dear Harry,_  

_Goodness, I didn’t expect to see Hedwig! My mum and dad were a bit concerned, and they told me that there was a beautiful snowy owl sitting outside our house, and I knew who it had to be and had to explain the whole concept of owl post. Of course, that made me realize that I don’t actually understand it that well, so I’m adding that to the list of subjects for which I want to do further reading when we are back at school. She didn’t have a letter with her, but I thought it was a perfect opportunity to get in touch with you before we leave on our skiing holiday in a few days._

_I have missed you greatly, of course. Mum and Dad wanted to know all about you, and I think Dad finally accepts that you are a true friend and that they should be happy we have found one another. It did take a bit of convincing, but my Dad is a bit protective of me, and always wants what’s best, so I wouldn’t take it personally._

_It’s so strange being back in the Muggle world after a few months at Hogwarts. I suppose you would have some idea what I was talking about, since you did know Muggles, but you also grew up with magic. The first night back I woke up wondering if it had all been some kind of dream, but I found my wand on my desk, and that reassured me straight away. I really wish I could keep practicing during the holidays, but I certainly don’t want to get in trouble with the Ministry. So I have to content myself by reading books – of course, that’s nothing new. I’ve already found some interesting ones that I would love to share with you when we see each other next. I’m afraid I’ve found nothing new about Nicholas Flamel, though. We have the connection to alchemy, but what does that have to do with anything? I know there was a book, somewhere, that had more, but it was months ago now and I only found it in the first place because it was on a cart waiting to be returned to the stacks. I wish I could be of more help. Do make sure to look in the library at Dressler Manor – I’m certain that you might have better luck._

_It has been good to be at home, though. My parents have been a bit worried about me and it is a good thing that I have to chance to put them more at ease. I told them there was some trouble that got you hurt, but I decided against telling them about the troll – I love them, Harry, but they would not understand, and surely that sort of thing is not likely to happen again anytime soon? They are very excited about my classes, even if I think they are still struggling to accept the existence of magic and that their only daughter is a young witch. I suppose it must be a struggle for every witch or wizard with Muggle parents, though._

_Harry, I know that might sound a bit odd, and I certainly don’t want to frighten you, but - you are one of the most important people I have ever met. You are more than just a friend, and I try to find a way to explain it, and whatever I come up with just isn’t enough. I had gotten the idea that you felt something similar, so hopefully this is not going to just come out of the blue. But thank you for everything._

_Have a very happy Christmas, and I will see you on the train!_

_Love,_

_Hermione_

_P.S. If you send Hedwig back with a reply, I might be able to get your Christmas present to you earlier than expected! Hope to hear from you soon._

Harry found himself grinning madly when he put down the letter, his eyes tracing over the last section and the word that came before his friend’s name. Her handwriting had become a bit more free and flowery when she reached the end, as though she was pouring some of her affection for him into her quill strokes. Harry felt a warmth that he had scarcely felt before except when Daphne had held him after his nightmares.

“Hmmm, somebody’s a happy boy then,” Tonks interrupted. “You’re positively glowing, you know.” There was something odd in her voice, as if she meant to tease, but actually sounded a bit jealous.

“Hermione’s a good friend,” Harry said simply. “The best I could ask for.”

 

Harry was wandering back upstairs after retrieving a glass of water when his guardian’s voice stopped him in his tracks. “Harry.”

He turned. Daphne was in a pale blue dressing gown, her hair falling loose to her shoulders, her eyes shining with what Harry could only suppose was concern or anxiety. She was back-lit by the glow of the old parlour's fireplace. “Yes, Daphne?”

She looked at him searchingly. “You’ve been home for a week now, and you’ve scarcely spoken about your time at Hogwarts, at least to me. I’m thrilled that you and Nymphadora are growing so close, but I had expected us to talk about things a bit earlier. Is everything alright?”

“Yeah,” Harry replied, not sure if that was really true. 

Daphne looked at him, looked  _through_  him it seemed. She frowned. “I think we ought to talk sometime, Harry. I know it’s late…”

He didn’t feel much like sleeping anyway. “No, this is fine. I’ll just sleep later tomorrow,” he said. “So, I guess you want to hear more about Hogwarts, then?”

Daphne smiled thinly. “A bit more than your letters told me, I would hope.”

Harry delicately tried to explain the circumstances that had led up to his friendship with Hermione, taking pains not to let Daphne know just how bad things had gotten at points. He was a Hogwarts student now – he ought to be able to deal with hardship in his life without running to Mum. Still, it was fairly clear that Daphne knew he had been very unhappy. She hissed softly when he talked about Snape’s treatment of him.

“I knew that man would spare no expense to cause you trouble.”

“He’s reminded of my father, I think. And you said they did not get along well.”

“No, not at all,” she said quietly. “Snape hated James, and I’m fairly certain the feeling was mutual. He was also rather fond of Lily, which made things worse.”

Harry nodded. That made more sense. “I don’t think I’m much like my father, am I? I mean, besides being in Slytherin and not Gryffindor?”

“You’re certainly more bookish then he ever was,” Daphne said, a hint of pride in the former Ravenclaw’s voice. “And you don’t have the same desire to prank your poor classmates. Of course, James might not have become so legendary a trouble-maker if not for his friends.” She trailed off abruptly. Harry desperately wanted to know more, but he had lived with Daphne long enough to know when a subject was off-limits. Maybe one of these days he would get a straight answer out of her about his parents’ schooldays, but for now the memories seemed too painful for her to relive.

He hoped that would change. It did not seem healthy to just…cut off part of your life like that.

“Any suggestions, then?”

“Be as courteous and civil as you can manage,” she advised. “If things get really out of hand, do not be afraid to come to me.”

Harry sighed. “I’ve told Professor Sinistra about it all, but she was not able to help me. I think Snape’s intimidated her.”

“That would be very much like him,” she mused. “Sinistra…I didn’t know her.” 

“She’s one of the newest members of the staff. Just started this year.”

Daphne nodded. “Making it all the easier for Snape to control her.”

Harry noticed the edge in her voice. “You really don’t like him, do you?”

Daphne’s answer was a bit revealing. “Well, there  _are_  reasons other than his appalling treatment of you, but that  _is_  topping the list at the moment.”

“Something besides his award-winning personality, I suppose?”

“Rather,” she said, frowning. “Harry, it is not my place to give away Professor Snape’s secrets, as tempted as I am at times. But you should know that his loyalties can be considered…suspect, at best. Do you understand what I am saying?”

Harry frowned. “Are you saying he was with Voldemort in the last war?”

Daphne grimaced. “No, I’m  _not_  saying that.” She gave him a meaningful look, then looked down at her hands, apparently finding her nails rather interesting.

Harry wondered whether he should tell Daphne about his own suspicions concerning the Potions Master, but decided that it was unwise for two reasons – first, he had no evidence whatsoever, and secondly, she was cross enough at him for trying to find out whatever was hidden in the school. Telling her he thought Snape was up to something - and he was attempting to investigate it on his own - would only make things worse. 

Daphne looked at him, her eyes hard. “Have there been any major incidents with Snape since your first class?” 

“Not really,” Harry said, after what he hoped was not too lengthy a pause. “He hates me, and makes no secret of it, but that was the only time he got really angry. And he did let me onto the Quidditch team.”

There was also the episode with Snape’s intrusion into his mind, but it had not been repeated since that time on the Quidditch pitch, and he was quite certain that what was left of Snape after she found out would fit into a matchbox.

“Ah, in that, at least, you do take after your father,” she said, smiling, though her eyes betrayed a deep sadness. “It took me years before I could mount a broom without a blind panic, though I worked at it until I felt comfortable flying some distance. Broomstick training is part of Auror training, though I got most of my instruction at Hogwarts. After your mother and father began dating, James was more than happy to show off…I mean, of course, tutor me.”

Harry bit his lip. “There was something a bit frightening, and it  _did_  involve flying.” He met her eyes, his voice dropping almost to a whisper. “I think my broom was hexed at the Quidditch match when I fell. I couldn’t control it, and it was like it was trying to throw me off.” 

Daphne’s expression had gone deadly serious. “Harry,” she said quietly, “why did you not tell me this before? Is Dumbledore aware of this?”

Harry shook his head. “I…I guess I should have. And I don’t know. I haven’t really seen him much.”

Daphne frowned. “I would have expected him to take a closer interest in you.”

“Maybe it’s because I’m not a Gryffindor, like he expected. Nobody seems to like Potter the Slytherin.”

Daphne sighed. “I know it has been hard for you. It wasn’t so bad in the old days, oddly enough. Slytherin really got its reputation for turning out Dark wizards during my time there, when so many of them became Death Eaters after they left…well, some of them were probably Marked while they were still students, especially the ones that 'disappeared' after the Siege. Salazar’s battles with the other founders did the House’s reputation no favours, it's true…”

“I think it’s just that they all think I should have been a Gryffindor, defeating Voldemort and all, so they think since I was put in Slytherin that there’s something wrong with me.” He frowned. “Could there be?” Harry was not one to buy into rumours, especially those concerning him, but that did not mean dark thoughts did not creep into his head once in a while.

“Of course not,” Daphne said without hesitation. She leaned forward, love in her eyes. “Harry, you are a wonderful boy, even if the world has not treated you as one. Children are cruel at your age, and adults are all too often blind. It is not fair for them to ask you to prove you are a good person, but if you persevere and show them who you really are, sooner or later they will come to their senses.” 

“I know,” Harry said softly, “It’s just difficult. I get angry, and I say and do things that just make everything worse.” He found himself explaining a couple of the incidents with Hermione early in the year. 

“Well, you overcame that, and now you and Hermione are as close as can be.”

“Only  _after_  I was nearly crushed by a troll,” Harry muttered darkly.

Daphne sighed. “I know. But perhaps having Hermione at your side will make your case for you. If you are best friends with a Muggleborn Gryffindor, I think that can only help.”

“Hermione’s been getting some of it too,” Harry admitted. “Her Housemates think she shouldn’t be hanging out with a Slytherin.”

“House prejudices run deep, and it is all too easy for children of your age to resort to name-calling and stereotyping, because it makes the world a little bit less confusing. Never mind that people are hurt because of it.” She sighed, “and adults aren’t much better.” Rising from the chair she walked over to kneel beside him, her hands covering his. “Harry, I know it is not easy, but if you would like to think of it this way, you are sending a message that not all Slytherins are bad people who hate Muggleborns. Perhaps you can be the redemption of that House?”

Harry smiled faintly. “Maybe I could be.”

She leaned forward and gently kissed his forehead. “If anyone can manage it, I have faith that it would be you. You are a special boy, Harry, and not because of any scar. Here,” she said, tapping on his chest, “and here,” she tapped his temple, “are what make you so exceptional. Never doubt that.”

“I’ll try,” he promised.

“Good.”

She kissed his head again, and rose to leave. “Harry,” she said, stopping and turning, “do you have any idea who might have wanted to knock you off that broom? Because that is magic well beyond the capabilities of most any student.”

Harry shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t _think_ it would have been Snape.”

Something dark flickered in Daphne’s eyes. “I don’t believe even _he_ would do that.” She paused. “Has your scar been hurting you?”

“Occasionally, but nothing terrible. Why?”

“I don’t know yet, Harry. But I am determined to find out, because I _will_ keep you safe, no matter what.”

Ruthless conviction rang through every word.

 

  

_Harry dreamt._

_He caught glimpses of unfamiliar corridors, a crystalline sphere shrouded in mist, and a series of runes that meant nothing to him, but glowed with a brilliant sapphire light._

_He found himself in a courtyard, surrounded by pale stone towers and a great arched gate, covered in strange and indecipherable symbols and runes. A flash of light drew his eyes, and as if sped up, he saw the fiery ball of the sun sinking swiftly below the horizon, passing across a line of headstones as it descended, bringing on the fall of night. A cold wind swept through him, chilling him to his bones, and a great sadness came, heavy and suffocating._

_He felt the tears streaming down his face. He looked down at his hands and saw they were not his, or perhaps they were, but the hands he had now were not crisscrossed by scars and half-healed burns and stained with dried blood. There was someone else there too, someone who seemed familiar, but not._

Hermione _?_

_The tree shone before him, a white tree so bright it seemed to be made of translucent crystal. The light came from within, calling to him, offering warmth and safety, taking away the cold. In the darkness it stood, a beacon of Light._

 

Harry’s eyes snapped open. In an instant he knew that there was no tree, no courtyard, and at this moment, no cold and sadness and death. The images and sensations had been shockingly vivid, but they were fading now, away and away until he could no longer see them. Yet he remembered them, if only by their absence in his mind. 

Harry lay back down, snuggling into his coverlet, wrapping it around him like a shield against the dark and the cold, and closed his eyes, drifting off into the netherworld, his dream just a dream. 

 

 

Harry frowned as he tried to write something that might somehow capture all that he was feeling. Every sentence he wrote in his reply to Hermione felt inadequate. He knew she would think he was being a fool, worrying about it like this, but that thought did not really help him in the moment.

Neither did the heckling from the bored Auror trainee who was lying on her back on Harry’s poorly-made bed, bright violet eyes looking at him upside-down. “You sure are putting a lot of work into that letter, Harry,” she said, her voice teasing. “You know, if you love her, you should probably just out and say it. Get an early start on overcoming your male romantic awkwardness.”

Harry clenched his teeth. “I told you, I don’t…well, I don’t think…”

“…that you feel like that about her. Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it before.”

He turned to look directly at her. “Then why do you keep asking me about my feelings?”

She grinned deviously. “Because it’s fun.”

Harry scowled at her, and returned to his letter, scratching out another couple of sentences before he hit a wall. He flicked his forehead with the quill.  _Why am I making this so difficult?_ he growled inwardly.

“Do you have anyone, now?” he found himself asking, glancing back over his shoulder.

Tonks looked quizzically back at him (which was a strange sight upside-down) before flipping onto her stomach. “Not really, no. There are a couple of blokes in my program who are pretty decent-looking. And one fine looking gal, but she’s taken. But I haven’t dated anyone since Hogwarts. Why do you ask?” Her voice was suspicious.

Harry met her gaze. “Because you seem rather  _interested_  in me and Hermione.”

Tonks scoffed. “What, you think I’m just projecting onto you? Naw, I just like messing with you. Plus, lots of friendships turn into more than that. Maybe when you two are older you’ll know what I mean.”

“Maybe,” Harry said, though such thoughts really were beyond him at this point. He paused as something occurred to him. “Tonks, have you ever heard of Nicholas Flamel?

“Huh…name sounds familiar,” she admitted. “But I can’t place it. What’s so important about him?”

“Nothing,” Harry said quickly, quietly deciding he was best not trying to respond to Hermione’s confused emotional self-analysis. Maybe they would talk about it next time they saw each other, but Harry decided against pouring his heart out when he really didn’t know what might spill out with it.

Tonks raised a bushy eyebrow. “Doesn’t sound like nothing.” 

“There’s something in the school,” Harry admitted. “Something involving Flamel, maybe some kind of small magical artefact, and it’s hidden and guarded. Possiby by a massive three-headed dog.” 

Tonks whistled. “One of Hagrid’s pets, I’d expect. Blimey, you think it’s protecting something?”

Harry nodded. “Hermione says she saw a trapdoor.”

“Ooh, sounds like an adventure.” She frowned. “But what’s got you so worried about it? You don’t even know what it is.”

“I know, but I just keep thinking about it at odd moments, like I need to get to it myself, even though I don’t know what I would do with it." He grimaced. "It’s important, somehow. I just have a feeling.”

For a moment, Tonks looked uncharacteristically thoughtful. “Huh,” she said. “Well, sorry I can’t help you, but I'll give you some advice...even if it’s a bit hypocritical coming from a troublemaker like me. Just…don’t go wandering into danger unless you’ve got a real good reason, Harry. Sometimes you do need to leave things well enough alone.”

The way she said it made it clear that she was speaking from personal experience.

“I know,” Harry replied, staring off into space.  _Something_  was pressing him while he was at Hogwarts. And one in a while it would be accompanied by a twinge of burning on his forehead, possibly in his scar, though it was so small and unnoticeable most of the time that Harry could not say that for sure. He would be a whole lot happier when he knew exactly what Dumbledore was keeping in the castle, and if it was indeed connected to the break-in at Gringotts that he had read about.

“You worry too much for a kid, you know that? You’re just a little first year.” She waved a dismissive hand at his affronted expression. “Oh, I know that you aren’t exactly normal and you’ve got this name and past that follows you around everywhere, but nobody ought to be expecting you to be anything more than a normal kid, if they have any sense in them.”

“Thanks…I think,” Harry said, puzzled. “Actually, I’m not sure how I ought to take that. I mean, I want to be a bit more than normal.”

“'spose you’re in Slytherin for a reason then, eh? A little ambition here and there?" 

“Something like that,” Harry said, thinking of the Hat’s words. “I want to be more than just a story from a time I can’t even remember.”

“Fair enough,” Tonks replied. “A bit tough when you’re eleven, though. You’re a good student, I reckon?”

Harry nodded. “I’ve always liked to learn, and to read. Being around Hermione has only made me more focused.”

“Yeah, I wasn’t exactly like that during a lot of my time at Hogwarts. Just slipped into the Auror program by the skin of my teeth, I reckon.”

“What have they been teaching you, anyway?”

Tonks closed her eyes and blew her purple bangs out of her face. “Well, since we’re part of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, obviously we need to be very familiar with wizarding law and procedures and stuff. We haven’t gotten to too much spellwork yet, though we were tested on a few basics, y’know; Stunners,  _Incarcerous_ ,  _Impedimenta_ , that sort of thing. And there’s some more in depth stuff, like disguise and concealment.”

“Which I’m sure is no problem for you.”

Tonks laughed. “Well, the disguise part is rather up my alley, but concealment? I think I made the instructor cry when I tripped over my own shoelaces. And ‘m not sure they were tears of laughter, either.”

“Is the clumsiness related to your abilities?” 

“Might be. I mean, Mum’s an elegant thing, you know, from a  _real aristocratic pure-blood background_ ,” she said haughtily, before returning to her normal tone of voice. "And I don’t know much about me dad, but Mum says I didn’t get it from him. And it started getting really bad when I got older. You’re not the first one to suggest that as a cause, but Metamorphmagi are rare enough that nobody really knows.”

“Did you look it up?”

“What, me, in a library? I wouldn’t know how to begin. No, really, I asked Mum to look into it, ‘cause I was getting the mickey taken out of me for knocking over stuff at school, but she never came up with anything. Just a mystery, I ‘spose. Seems to get better under pressure though. Maybe something about adrenaline? Reckon I wouldn’t last long as an Auror otherwise.”

Tonks rolled onto her side and tried to sit up, but nearly fell off the bed in the process and had to balance herself on one hand to keep from landing on her head. “Case in point,” she grumbled. “You done with that novel yet?”

“It’s barely eight inches.”

“You’ve been at it for over an hour!”

“Well, I’m having trouble writing what I’m thinking,” Harry explained.

“Don’t think,” Tonks advised sagely. “Just do. It’s always worked for me,” she said with a wide grin.

Harry groaned.

 

 

 

A week later, Harry was broken from his odd dreams of white trees and stone towers by a tug that nearly wrenched his arm from its socket. Yelping, he opened his eyes to see the blurry form of his new friend. Well, he assumed it was her; the green and red blotch where her hair ought to be was a decent give-away. 

“Wake up, you lazy lump! WAKE UP!” Tonks yelled the last part, and Harry jumped, nearly falling out of bed. “’S Christmas you fool! What’cha doing sleeping right now?” 

He rolled over. “Go away  _Nymmy_ ,” he mumbled into the sheets.

There was a growl and his head was struck by a pillow. “Don’t get started with me, kid. Get up if you know what’s good for you.”

“Tonks, act your own age for once,” he said tiredly.

“ _Levicorpus!”_

Harry let out a cry as he suddenly found himself hanging upside-down above his bed by his ankle.

“Damn it, you mad woman! Let me DOWN!” Harry yelled.

Tonks gasped as though offended, and began bobbing her wand up and down. Harry followed the path, his feet brushing the ceiling and his head hitting his bed. He cried out in indignation.

“Having fun yet?”

They both turned to look, though Harry remained upside-down.

Daphne stood in the doorway, wearing a bemused expression. “It looks like you have this well under control, Nymphadora. I’ll leave him to you, then. Just get him downstairs in one piece; breakfast is almost ready.”

“Okay, food  _and_  presents. We ain’t waiting anymore. Either you come with me or I vanish your sleeping trousers and bring you down like this.”

Harry groaned at  _that_  mental image. “Monster,” he muttered. 

Tonks  _hmphed_ , then let him go with a flick of her wand. He scrambled madly to land on his back instead of his head. When he stopped to stretch, a Stinging Hex caught him in the backside. “ _Tonks!”_  he yelped.

“Meet you downstairs, Harrikins,” she said with a cruel smile.

Harry muttered something somewhat unkind, and Tonks turned red. “ _Rictumsempra!”_   

Harry swore as the Tickling Charm took effect, and began screaming in both rage and mirth all at once.

“ _Levicorpus!_ ”

Harry was still basically blind without his glasses, now just out of reach on his nightstand, and beside them his wand. He gasped and then failed in his attempt to not give Tonks the satisfaction of hearing the hex get to him. 

“STOP IT!” Harry managed to get out before the tickling robbed him of his voice again. 

“Say you-know-what, Harry,” Tonks teased.

Harry blushed in anger and embarrassment. They had played this game before, just yesterday, though she hadn’t gone quite  _this_  far before.  

“I…Ow! That wasn’t necessary!  _TON…TONKS_  IS THE MOST  _BEAUTI_ …MOST BEAUTIFUL WITCH IN THE HIS…HISTORY OF THE KNOWN UNIVERSE!” Harry bellowed.

Smirking in triumph, she let him go, and he managed to land on his feet this time, scrambling for his wand and glasses. “I’m going to kill you,  _Nymphadora!_ ” he hissed. He wondered how much he actually meant it. It occurred to him that such pranks and teasing was a lot more…tolerable coming from someone he was genuinely fond of.

Tonks flounced out of the room, only just clipping her shoulder on the door frame. Finally able to see again, Harry roughly threw on his dressing gown and followed her, only to find his guardian leaning against the wall of the landing and gasping for air. He scowled at her, and she patted him gently on the shoulder. Andromeda was looking less pleased by her daughter’s behaviour. “Alright, downstairs with both of you, before you break something.” 

“Can breakfast wait till we open presents, Mum?” Tonks asked, sounding quite a bit younger than her nineteen years.

“It’s fine,” Daphne said, rolling her eyes. “Have at it.” 

Harry made for the pile of three or four boxes lying at the base of the great tree which the four of them had decorated together. Though Tonks ripped her first gift open, he was a bit more dignified as he unwrapped a heavy package with a note from Hermione.

He’d thought long and hard about what to get his new best friend. A book was an obvious choice, though that was risky in itself because she owned so many. He’d browsed through a series of titles before giving up and purchasing a ten galleon gift certificate to use at Flourish and Blotts, along with instructions on how to use the Owl Order system the bookstore offered. For Tonks and Andromeda, he had little opportunity to shop for gifts, but Daphne had made a trip to London to meet with a Ministry official concerning her ownership of the manor and had managed to get a few things in Diagon Alley.

Hermione’s gift contained two objects: a box of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans and a sizable tome on the founding and history of the Aurors. Daphne was apparently familiar with the title, as she nodded approvingly when he showed her. His second gift was a box wrapped in red paper from Daphne. His eyes widened in delight as he discovered the beautifully tooled leather wrist holster for his wand, which looked to include a quick release. He thanked his guardian profusely. She shook her head and insisted that she would have it no other way.

Tonks was green with envy. “She spoils you, Harry! I really want one of those.”

“Well, maybe if you pass your exams this year, you might get a nice surprise,” Andromeda hinted. The older girl grinned and returned to opening her gifts.

Harry also noticed the ‘ _HJP-D’_  engraved across the back of the holster, just as it was on his Nimbus. Grinning, he strapped it to his arm, and was pleased when it shrank to fit perfectly. He could not resist trying to quick draw his own wand, and got it down after a few tries, though not before once knocking the gift was Tonks was working on out of her hands to send her scrambling across the floor. She scowled but said nothing further, and Harry knew he would pay for it later. 

Tonks’ gift came next, and surprisingly, it was a book.  _Rogue Wizard of the Law: The Unauthorized Mad-Eye Moody Story_.

Daphne chuckled when she saw it. “Alastor must have had a fit when he heard about that.” 

“Oh yeah, he did,” Tonks confirmed. “But it’s a great read, even if a bit fanciful. Thought you’d enjoy it, kiddo.” 

Harry frowned. “You know this man, Daphne?” 

“You could say that,” she replied, sighing. “He was my mentor. Not too much left of him, at this point, but he’s a legend in the Auror community, and in his prime, he was one of the best duellists you could find. Even on a wooden leg now I hear he’s still pretty fearsome." 

“My duelling instructor was telling me some stories,” Tonks said. “Said he was mad as a bat, thinking that everything and its mother was out to get him, but he could still kill you in his sleep.” 

“Sounds about right,” Daphne said. 

Harry found a joint gift and card from his Canadian friends, obviously written by Tricia, since the script was actually legible. Inside were some homemade sweets, a newspaper clipping about Connor’s older brother being selected for the Canadian national Quidditch team, and a red-and-white jersey. He would have to write them back.

Daphne was looking oddly at a letter she had pulled from a blue envelope. When he looked at her, she offered it to him. “The last bit is for you.”

Puzzled, Harry adjusted his glasses and read.

 

 _This last part is for Harry, if you don’t mind._  

_Hello Harry. I’m Justin Dressler, first cousin of Daphne’s late husband. It has been quite some time since I was last in Britain – I travelled to Melbourne for a magical conference twenty years ago and met the love of my life, and could never really bring myself to leave. Of course, I heard of your story – who hasn’t – but I do feel for a young man like yourself who has such grand expectations placed upon his shoulders. I was several years ahead of your parents at Hogwarts, though I did meet James and his father once, and the strength within them was plain to see. I just wanted to let you know that even Down Under we are all rooting for you, Harry. Don’t let anything stop you from becoming the wizard that you want to be._

_I’ve given you something I hope you will find useful. It’s a Sneakoscope from my school days, but cleverly modified so that it alerts you to the approach of anyone who has come of age. It’s also silenced, so that it will vibrate instead of making additional noise. It’s not perfect, but it got me out of a few scrapes with Filch once upon a time. I’m sure you’ll find a use for it._

_Regards,_

_Justin Dressler_

 

Harry glanced up. “Did you know him well, Daphne?”

“No,” she admitted, her eyes growing clouded and distant. “Edmund and I did not really know one another until third year, when Justin had already finished. But by all accounts, he is a good man. He was a Gryffindor, I think.” 

Harry stared at the letter before him, then at the Sneakoscope, which looked well worn, but still in decent condition. “It’s an interesting gift,” Daphne said. “And somewhat fortuitous, given…”

“Given what?” 

There was an odd look in her eyes, a bit of anger and disappointment, “I was expecting another gift for you, Harry. Something that an old friend has in his possession, but that does not belong to him.” She frowned. “I may need to have words with him.”

Harry was baffled. “Who, Daphne?”

She did not answer him, turning instead to her own gifts, and offering him a wide smile when she saw the fine green and silver scarf that he had bought for her.

 

 

 

“ _Harry!”_  a voice shrieked from the crowd. He looked around but was still blindsided when another body crashed into his, surprisingly strong arms wrapped around him tightly, and his vision was obscured by large quantities of bushy brown hair. “Oh, I missed you dreadfully! Thanks for the owl, by the way, your letter was wonderful! Oh, and the voucher from Flourish and Blotts, that will be excellent!”

“Missed you too, Hermione,” he gasped. Realizing his plight, Hermione finally let go, a sheepish look upon her face. Once his lungs were working again, Harry gave her a fond smile. “I thought about you every day.”

Hermione grinned back. 

“Hello, what do we have here?” Tonks butted in, a hint of mischievous glee in her voice. 

Being Hermione, his friend didn’t miss a beat. “I’m Hermione Granger,” she said politely. “And you must be Nymphadora Tonks.”

Harry received a glare that could melt glass. “Tonks, if you don’t mind, dear,” the older witch said as gracefully as she could manage.

“She really likes it when you call her  _Nymmy_ ,” Harry whispered. “And it helps to mention the family resemblance…” He got a smack on the head for that.

“Don’t you start with me, Harrikins,” she taunted, grabbing his lapel in a gesture that did not feel like it was in jest. “Excuse us, will you?” she asked Hermione, who was standing to the side looking a bit baffled. “He hasn’t been properly trained yet.” Her eyes suddenly went dark and menacing, and her hair blackened and drew itself up into a severe bob. She looked like a younger version of her mother, but quite a bit scarier. “ _Don’t_  think that just because we’re out in public I won’t hang you from that lamp and pull your trousers down so all can see the  _Boy-Who-Lived_ ,” she whispered menacingly. Harry felt sweat bead on his brow. It was sometimes hard to tell when Tonks was kidding. 

Across from him, Hermione’s eyes widened almost comically. She was staring at Tonks’ hair. 

Tonks giggled, now looking rather ridiculous. “I’m a Metamorphmagus, dear,” she said. “And anyway, it’s you we want to talk about.” She loosened her grip on Harry, and he stumbled back a few steps. There were occasions he could push Tonks too far. The dig about the Blacks and Malfoys was probably one of them, he realized. “I’ve always wanted to meet Harry Potter’s girlfriend.”

Hermione’s cheeks went scarlet and ducked her head. Harry felt warmth flooding his own cheeks. “ _Tonks!_ ” he hissed.

Tonks giggled again. “It’s so easy, Harry.”

“You’re scaring her.”

“She is  _not_!” Hermione protested hotly. “Just…confusing me a little. Well, rather a lot, actually.” She mumbled something else under her breath, but it was lost in the hustle and bustle of the platform.

“That’s alright, I have that effect on most people,” the older girl replied, her features returning to a semblance of normality. “I’m not really this awful to him – I’m downright sweet sometimes, I am, though  _he’d_  never admit that. But you know, as an older sister, I‘ve got certain _responsibilities_ , you know?”

“I’m an only child,” Hermione replied dryly.

“He also called me the most beautiful witch in the universe, didn’t you, Harry?” Tonks’ smirk was unbearable.

Hermione was looking at him in confusion. “I was suspended upside down being tickled half to death,” Harry said, increasingly desperate. 

Hermione stared at him for a long moment. Then her concerned, calm exterior broke, she grinned widely, and began shaking with laughter. A moment later she was gasping for breath. “I don’t….I don’t know what to say, Tonks.” 

“ _And isn’t_ that _a rare thing_ ,” Harry mumbled under his breath.

Hermione gave him annoyed look, but turned her delighted smile back to the older girl. “Really, I congratulate you. Harry’s one of the most  _stubborn_  and  _unyielding_  people I’ve ever met. And you  _broke_  him!” She marvelled, speechless. 

“I  _like_  you,” Tonks declared proudly. Harry groaned.

Hermione gave him a conspiratorial glance, and it occurred to him at that moment that Hermione might not be being entirely genuine in this exchange. Where had she picked up that kind of instinct for deception? The answer quickly became obvious.  _She’s best friends with a Slytherin, you dolt_ , a voice in his head chided.

The train whistled loudly, bellowing clouds of steam rising from the locomotive at the front. The pace of the activity around them suddenly increased, as students frantically said their goodbyes and got their things aboard. 

“As wonderful as this little meeting has been, I think it  _is_ time that we say goodbye,” Daphne cut in. There was a hint of worry in her eyes that suddenly made her look much older than her thirty-odd years. The shadows under her eyes were evidence she had been sleeping poorly of late.  _Nightmares_ , Harry thought. The only mother he had ever known opened her arms and Harry stepped towards her, welcoming her warm embrace. She kissed him gently on the forehead. “Stay safe, Harry. Please. For my sake, if for nothing else.”

“I’ll try, Daph. I will.”

She smiled crookedly at him. “I know trouble has a way of finding you. But bring yourself back to me in one piece, alright?”

Harry nodded. Daphne laid a hand on his shoulder, and took his hand in her other. She squeezed both tightly. “You are intelligent, talented, kind, and clever. You will succeed at Hogwarts, and you’ve got somebody to share your success with now. Don’t let Snape or anyone else ruin your time, understand?”

“I do.”

She shook her head. “Alright, I think a few others want to see their farewells.”

As if on cue, Harry found himself enveloped in Tonks. “You take care of yourself, you hear? Otherwise I’ll come up and find you…and oh hell, just  _be careful_ , okay kid?”

“I will, big sis,” he whispered. She squeezed him even more when he said that, and when she finally drew back, he could see tears glistening in her eyes. There was love there, pure and simple. Since it  _was_  Tonks, she ruffled his hair to ruin the moment.

“Oi!” Harry protested. Tonks clapped him on the shoulders, then stepped aside. 

Andromeda held out a hand. “It was a pleasure to spend the holidays with you, Harry. I hope to see a great deal more of you in the future.”

“As do I.”

Hermione had finished saying her farewells to her own parents, and with one last glance around the platform, she and Harry joined hands and walked towards the train, offering each other a little bit more assurance that everything was indeed going to be alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Tonks and Harry! The relationship dynamic is really different at 11 and 19 than 15 and 23, but I do like it a lot. Harry is way too serious without Ron in his life, honestly. Her teasing about Harry and Hermione is just obnoxious older sibling stuff, nothing more. It is in fact possible for a boy and a girl to be extremely close without romance entering into it even as they get older.
> 
> Rowling has since stated somewhere or other than Quirrell was not long at Hogwarts before he was possessed, but I like the idea that he was a perfectly good professor until that, and that *he* is the one who started the DADA curse. 
> 
> There's a certain challenge to writing Harry discovering things that we obviously already know, especially as this iteration of our hero is considerably more introspective and observant than his canon self. I figure that Flamel himself is a relatively well-known figure - the existence of the Philosopher's Stone, on the other hand, is more obscure knowledge.
> 
> Tonks is canon bisexual in the GM-verse. However, remember that this fic is set in 1991. In what Rowling wrote as a very small-c conservative society. What might be comfortably interpreted as romantic flings or relationships with boys might well be seen as 'experimenting' or 'secret dating' in Hogwarts in the 1980s.


	11. Norbert and Flamel

“Hermione, are you _sure_ this is a good idea?” His excited best friend was apparently not listening, and Harry could almost hear the gears turning in her head. They had scarcely made it inside the castle before Hermione, the snow still melting on her coat, had latched onto his hand and dragged him up several flights of moving stairs.

They reached a portrait of a large woman in a pink dress, lounging in a great Louis XIV armchair surrounded by more facets of an eighteenth-century aristocrat. _This must be the Gryffindor portrait Hermione was going on about._  

“Daisy Fly,” Hermione spoke clearly. The portrait, which had been sleeping, awoke with a start and swung open. Then she caught sight of Harry, and slammed shut.

“ _He_ can’t come in!” the painted woman cried, presumably recognizing Harry’s colours and badge.

Hermione shook her head. “You have to let him in. There is no rule against bringing a member of another House into _your own_  House dormitory,” Hermione said, with confidence beyond her twelve years of age, albeit probably informed by a word-for-word knowledge of the Hogwarts' code of regulations.

Defeated, the woman sighed, and the portrait swung open. Hermione grabbed hold of the sleeve of Harry's robes and practically threw him into a red armchair while she ran up the stairs, presumably to the girls’ dorms. “Stay there!” she shouted down at him, and he settled in, leaning back in the comfortable chair and trying to relax. 

He examined his surroundings while he waited for her to return. The Gryffindor common room was certainly a different environment than the one he was used to. Most of the Slytherin dormitories were in fact carved out of solid bedrock beneath the Lake, with great roughly-cut vaulted ceilings that were doubtless hundreds of years old, maybe even dating to the time of the Founders. The long, low space was dimly lit by an array of magical lamps along the walls and ceiling, and the fireplace, being magical, gave off a dull green glow.

By contrast, the circular Gryffindor Tower common room was a riot of reds and golds, decorated with magnificent animated tapestries and antique bookshelves, and spread about with comfy red armchairs and couches, centered around a roaring fireplace taller than he was. It was, in a word, bold. And almost blinding to a Slytherin first year accustomed to far more muted surroundings.  

“Bloody…what are _you_ doing here? _”_

Harry glanced up to see a thoroughly gobsmacked Ron Weasley descending the staircase from the male dormitory with his twin brothers in tow. Harry waved pleasantly, knowing it would annoy the boy further. 

Fred and George looked genuinely confused, rather than outraged. “Potter, if you don’t mind us asking-”

“what in the blazes is your reason for being in _our_  common room?”

“We reckon you _have_ a reason-” 

“-since we hadn’t thought of you as someone with a death wish.”

Harry shrugged helplessly. “I was dragged in here by Hermione. I’m not completely sure why, I could have waited for her…oh, here she comes.”

Sure enough, Hermione came pounding down the stairs, carrying a hefty book in both hands. Ron turned on her.

“What do you think you are doing, inviting  _him -_  a  _Slytherin -_  into our common room? Are you completely mad? Have you taken leave of your senses? Last I heard you wanted nothing to do with him, and now he's your best mate?”

Harry snickered into his hand, drawing the other boy’s ire. “Think this is funny, do you?”

“Yes,” Harry admitted, starting to rise to his feet in challenge. Hermione gestured for him to sit, and he obediently plopped back down. “Bit of the pot calling the kettle black, I reckon. Don’t you agree?” he said, turning to Fred and George. They smiled evilly at him.

“Oh yes-“ said George.

“-After all, Ickle Ronnikins hasn’t exactly been all that generous to you-“ 

“-think he might be a bit jealous-“ George added in a faux whisper.

“He drew a picture of you, years back-"

"Hung it on his wall, didn't he?" 

"Couldn't  _wait_ to meet the famous Harry Potter."

"And he even gave little Ginny a hard time, the little hypocrite." George finished.

It was a point of personal pride that Harry had identified enough differences to tell them apart. Well, most of the time…probably…given that he had never actually spoken to one without the other being present, it was hard to say for sure.

Ron's face almost matched the colour of his hair. “I can’t believe you are taking his side! And that...you'd tell _him_ about that  _stupid_ picture! I was  _eight_ _!"_  he cried indignantly.

Hermione finally reached them, and set the book down heavily. It hit with a loud THUMP that rattled the table.

“Blimey Granger-“ Fred said. 

“-are you going to kill someone with that?” George asked.

She scowled at them. “Only Ronald if he doesn’t keep quiet.”

“I’m not going away until he leaves,” Weasley insisted, crossing his arms with a glare. Then he drew his battered wand from his robes, but it was pointing at the floor, and from Harry's visual assessment he didn’t seem to know what to do in any case.

Harry decided now was as good a time as any to show off his new toy, and he flicked his wrist, sending his holly and phoenix feather wand into his right hand, which was pointed at Ron. He winked, before sliding the wand back up his robe sleeve, where it clicked back into the holster. 

Ron stomped off in a huff, with his brothers trailing behind him, heckling him mercilessly. Harry sighed when they left. “Now that those clowns are gone, do you mind explaining to me why you dragged the most hated student in the school into the Gryffindor common room?”

By way of answering, she flipped open the great tome she had retrieved, and Harry caught a glimpse of its title: _Alchemy in the Modern World: A Lost Science_.

She kept her voice at a low whisper. “We knew that Flamel was connected with alchemy – your information from the Dressler Library just confirmed it. But I found something really interesting in this book a month or two back-”

“Hang on, didn’t you say you had returned the book where you saw Flamel’s name mentioned?”

“One of them, yes,” Hermione explained impatiently. “This was an even larger one that I got out for a bit of light reading, but it covered all of alchemy’s history – you see Harry, I’ve always been quite interested in pre-modern science since I read a book on Galen as a child – he had some mad ideas about the human body which were accepted for centuries, all about the humours and how imbalances could cause mood shifts or illness or determine personality types and…”

Harry waved his hand impatiently. “Alright, so what has changed since the last time we spoke?”

“It’s about the _dates_ , Harry,” she said excitedly. She glanced around to make sure no one was watching them. “Harry, you said he was born around 1330, right? Granted, wizards can live much longer than Muggles, up to two hundred years if I’m not mistaken. But look at… _this!_ ”

Harry followed Hermione’s finger. “… _Flamel disappeared from public view for nearly a century before his work was published under a pseudonym in 1688. When the truth came out, most wizards thought him an impostor, as he was reported to have died in 1418. Sources of the age later confirmed the identity of still-living great alchemist, who was rumoured to have made a great discovery that extended his natural life, though the particulars remained a secret._

_As the Age of Reason approached, alchemy was regarded with greater and greater suspicion, and so the work of men like Flamel has gone relatively unrecognized in the histories of the time, though several legends surrounding his work have arisen over the centuries."_

“ _Sixteen Eighty-Eight?_ ” Harry asked, looking at her with his mouth open with shock. “But that must mean…”

“…he _did_ find a way of prolonging his life,” Hermione finished, a manic gleam in her eyes.

“Well, that certainly explains Fluffy’s presence, with something that fantastically valuable,” Harry said, his own mind brimming with excitement. Something clicked together in his thoughts, and a chill went through him. **“** And then…oh Merlin…”

“What are you two conspiring about?” asked a curious voice.

Harry and Hermione looked up to see nervous Neville Longbottom, looking rather baffled at their presence. Harry began to deny they were ‘conspiring’ about anything, but Hermione titled her head and asked, “Neville, do you know anything about Nicholas Flamel?”

The boy frowned, screwing up his eyes in concentration. “I think Gran’s talked about him before – that’s right, her father once had dinner with him.”

“ _Her father_?” Hermione asked. “But he can’t be more than a century old, surely?”

“He died young, actually,” Neville said sadly. “Just seventy-eight.”

“That means Flamel was alive in the early twentieth century!" Hermione said excitedly, doing the maths in her head. “He’s been alive at least… _five hundred years_! He must have found something, something _really_ important and powerful.” 

“I think Gran said she met his wife once, too,” Neville added. 

“Perenelle?” Harry asked.

“Think so.”

“Is she his _first_ wife?” Hermione asked her friend.

“His _only_ wife, as far as I can tell,” Harry replied. Neville looked confused, but also gratified to have been of some help. “So that means they have _both_ been around for five- no, _six_ centuries. How in name of Merlin…”

Neville was frowning at them. “Well, I dunno if it’s true, but haven’t either of you ever heard the story of the Philosopher’s Stone?” 

Hermione grew very still. “It sounds familiar.”

“Look, I’m probably not the best to be remembering anything, much less stories Gran told me when I was eight…or was it six? I dunno. I could be wrong, you know, and I don’t want to mislead you…”

“Go on, Neville,” Hermione urged him. 

“Well…Flamel was said to have actually created a magical stone of some sort, and with it, an Elixir of Life. As long as he drank it, he would never die of natural causes. And it turned anything into gold, of course, which was what he had been after in the first place,” Neville finished. “So why is this so important?”

Hermione was staring at Neville in awe, and at once, she leapt to her feet and threw her arms around him. Harry also rose and patted him on the shoulder. Harry gathered up their books as Hermione planted a kiss on her baffled housemate's cheek.

“What’d I do?" 

Harry gave Neville as wide a smile as he could manage and followed Hermione as she dashed out of the Gryffindor common room.

“ _What’d I do?”_

 

It took Hermione under twenty minutes to find what they were looking for, and as soon as she struggled over to their table carrying another massive volume, he instantly recognized it. “I’ve seen that before.”

“You have?” Her tone was almost accusing.

“Well…you had it. One of the times we talked. Before…”

Hermione stared at him for a moment. “Oh, right. That was why…” she trailed off, going a bit red, and began flipping through the book with some urgency.

“That was why _what,_ Hermione?”

“ _ThatwaswhyIdidn’tgetitoutinthefirstplace_ ,” she muttered.

Harry managed to catch enough of that to understand. “It’s alright. Really, don’t feel bad about it.”

Hermione stopped flipping pages and looked up at him. “Harry, don’t be so forgiving of me, just because I’m your friend _now_. I treated you dreadfully, and I was foolish and judgmental and made assumptions and I thought I was _better_ than that,” she hissed.  

“…okay. Would you rather I held it against you?”

“Not exactly, just don’t…just don’t forget what came before, because God knows I won’t.”

She set back to work at Harry pondered the implications of Hermione’s revelation.

“Besides, if I _hadn’t_ been so stupid, I would have kept this book, and we wouldn’t have spent months chasing oblique references and footnotes until Neville finally bought us a clue,” she continued. “Yes, there. Found it. I _knew_   I had seen it before.”

The passage Hermione pointed to confirmed all of Neville’s story and then some, including Flamel's own work with the Headmaster in more recent times. They had solved the mystery. The faded illustration of a red crystal was the last piece of evidence they needed. “I saw something that looked just like that,” Harry said. “I…I must have seen the _Philosopher’s Stone_ peeking out of Hagrid’s greatcoat when Daphne and I went to Gringotts.” 

Hermione started. “Wasn’t there a break-in at Gringotts months ago, right around the time school started?”

“There was, wasn’t there?” Harry replied. “Some _really_ powerful magic must have been used to breach the wards and defences.”

Hermione looked toward the ceiling, trying to recall the details. “Nothing was taken, because…” she grinned, “the vault had been _emptied_ earlier _that day_.”

“By Hagrid,” Harry finished, putting it all together. “Alright, so the Philosopher’s Stone is…here? In Hogwarts?” 

“Where Professor Dumbledore can keep an eye on it,” Hermione reasoned. “Besides Gringotts, is there anywhere safer than Hogwarts?”

“And there’s that bloody great three-headed dog guarding the thing,” Harry reminded her.

“So where does this leave us?”

“Well, we know what, now, which is good. Possibly even why.” Harry frowned. “We need to know who.”

Hermione looked at him anxiously. “Do we? I mean, this has been a great deal of fun, tracking all of this down, but _why_ are you so worried about it? Do you know something you aren’t telling me?”

“No!..I just have this feeling that…something’s wrong,” he finished. At her impatient look he blurted, “I don’t know _what’s_ wrong, but something bad is going on, and I think I know more about it than…than I realize.”

Hermione blinked. “And what do you mean by that?”

Harry shrugged helplessly. “Well, there was something I thought of that worries me. The Philosopher’s Stone was created in pursuit of alchemy, yes, but it has a rather more… _vital_ function.”

“Effective immortality,” Hermione said, following along.

Harry grimaced, trying to find the right words. “Well, you see, I remember reading, once I got a chance to learn more about the last war, that Voldemort was rumoured to be interested in immortality. More than interested, _obsessed_. The book I read was pretty...skeptical in tone, and there weren’t any details, but if we’re right, and it’s the Philosopher’s Stone down there…”

Hermione paled. “But he’s _dead_ , Harry. You-Kn…Voldemort,” she forced out, “is dead. _That’s_ why you’re famous, after all.”

She was right, of course. He absently scratched his forehead, as his scar had begun to itch a bit. Something was wrong. Something was missing.

But how _could_ it be Voldemort?

Hermione frowned. “Harry, regardless, I don’t know what we should do about this, if anything. We’re certainly not supposed to know as much as we do – and we would not have known where to begin, except for Hagrid.” Her eyes went wide as he looked down at his hands, twining his fingers together. “You’re not _seriously_ thinking about going after it, _are_ you?” 

Harry looked up. “Why would I do that?” Then his mind supplied the answer. “Unless…unless I thought there was a danger.” 

“In that case, we would warn a professor,” Hermione said firmly.

“What if one of the professors was involved?” he asked, his voice barely audible. Hermione looked absolutely scandalized. 

“Harry, you can’t be serious!” she lowered her voice as an older Hufflepuff passed by, eyeing them curiously. “Are you really saying that a member of the staff could be trying to steal the Stone?” She frowned suspiciously. “And you think it could be Professor Snape, don’t you?”

Harry said nothing for a moment. “Hermione that’s…what if it’s not…” he lowered his voice “…Snape, or rather, what if Snape…” 

“Harry,” she said, firmly. “I would remind you that we have absolutely _no_ evidence that Professor Snape was doing anything other than checking on the defences of the Stone that night. Actually, I have been thinking about that. Quite a lot. Harry, I _really_ don’t believe that Professor Snape is trying to steal the Stone. I know he’s a horrible person who has treated you dreadfully, but I asked around a bit, and found out that he has been teaching at Hogwarts for almost a decade. And he was hired by the Headmaster himself.”

Hermione had a point, and a good one. It was possible, damn, probably _likely_ , that Harry only suspected Snape of being involved in something nefarious because of how the Potions Master treated him. And _surely_ , if Snape’s loyalties were suspect, after so long, Albus Dumbledore would know, and would take action. “You’re right,” he admitted. He thought of what he did _not_ know about his Head of House’s past, and remembered Daphne's oblique allusion to his past loyalties, but it still didn't make sense, not with everything else. “I’m being hasty. Probably. But I don’t trust him, not for a moment.”

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked, suspicious. “Do you know something?”

“Daphne hinted…alright, _more_ than hinted,” he admitted, “that Snape had a rather dark past, might even have worked for Voldemort in the last war.”

Hermione shook her head. “That’s not possible! How could he be teaching at this school if it were known? How would Professor Dumbledore have hired him in the first place? You must be mistaken.”

“Well, Daphne’s indicated that Dumbledore trusts Snape, and since that would mean that Dumbledore is keeping Snape from Azkaban, or worse, he wouldn’t risk betraying that trust.” He frowned. “Of course, whatever Snape did means that Dumbledore has to look the other way when he’s being horrible to his students.” 

“And he’s _really_ got it out for you.”

“I noticed.”

Hermione took a deep breath. “Alright. So where we you going with all of this?”

Harry tried to put his thoughts together. “Well, I might have been wrong. There’s one case where Snape _would_ endanger his standing with Dumbledore, and that’s if he was betting on Voldemort returning to power.”

“Harry, that’s mad,” Hermione said stubbornly. “And we have no evidence,” she reminded him. “Could it be someone else? I am…well, you’ll think _me_ completely mad, but I _am_ starting to wonder about Professor Quirrell.”

Harry was speechless for a moment. “You can’t be serious,” he finally got out.

Hermione frowned. “I heard some of the older students say he was very different this year. He used to be a wonderful professor, one of the best Defence teachers the school had in decades. Now he’s just a mess. Angelina thinks he just out and lost it. There’s that story about vampires, you know, explaining why he always smells of garlic. Of course, my reading says that garlic has no effect on vampires; that’s just a myth.”

_Isn’t that what Tonks said? That she remembered a very different Professor Quirrell?_  

Hermione took a breath, probably summoning some Gryffindor courage to continue her uncharacteristic criticism and distrust of an authority figure. “And, well, I think I agree with something you said earlier, that he does seem like he is acting a role at times. I think he’s hiding something. But Harry, I _really_ think it’s a bad idea to go around thinking that one of our professors is involved in something like this.”

“Especially when we don’t even know that Voldemort isn’t dead, or not far gone enough to try something like this.”

She nodded. “Exactly.”

They agreed to keep their eyes open and try to be clear-headed about it all. But something in the back of his mind was still bothering him.

His scar itched.

 

 

 

The next few weeks flew by in a hurry, and soon all thought of Christmas break was forgotten. Harry and the rest of the first years had breathed a sigh of relief when they were not assigned homework to do over the holidays, but then discovered that their professors had just been saving it up for later. The mystery of Flamel solved, the two best friends now spent countless hours in their corner of the library, engaged in friendly competition for the best marks in the class. Hermione won most of the time; her memory and analytical skills were truly extraordinary.

They also got a lot of looks as they sat together, Slytherin and Gryffindor, talking in hushed voices, holding hands once in a while to reassure the other that they were not alone, and generally never letting the other out of their sight except for classes and when curfew rolled around.

Of course, the last part wasn’t _always_ true. Because Harry had discovered a new way of passing the time when he grew fed up of writing essays – trying to explore Hogwarts in its entirety, to the extent that was even possible, with the way the castle was constantly shifting and moving. Hermione was quite enthusiastic to join him at first, though she was quick to remind Harry that they needed to devote the most time to their schoolwork, and she did get a bit cross with him when he ignored her objections and began opening locked doors wherever he found them.

Harry and Hermione’s new pastime was not entirely the product of a spontaneous decision by the Boy-Who-Lived. It had begun three days after the holidays had finished, when Harry and Hermione were sitting at the Ravenclaw table with their mutual friends. An unfamiliar owl had swooped down and dropped a pair of identical envelopes in front of them.

_Welcome adventurers and mischief-makers (even if you don’t know you are one yet, Granger)! We, the guardians of a great treasure, have been watching you for some time, and we have deemed you worthy of our serious consideration for eventual ownership of a very, very special item. But first you must prove to us your properly mischievous spirit and boundless curiosity. We, the guardians of this item, and through it the possessors of endless fame and glory, task you to find…_

What had followed was a list of statues, paintings, and artefacts that could presumably be found in and around Hogwarts, though some of them had rather eclectic titles. Hermione had recognized a few of them, but neither of them could make any sense of _Mrs. Owlsbane_ or _Sir Cadogan’s Mum_.

Harry had never been able to resist a challenge, and since he had a guess who the mysterious challenge-setters were, he had dragged Hermione away from their books one evening, and within an hour, they had found themselves lost somewhere that was supposed to be on the fourth floor, but contained staircases leading to areas of the castle that Hermione insisted could not exist. “We’re right underneath the library, how can there possibly be a staircase leading to the next level? Surely we would have seen it?” 

Another hour later, they had found _Mrs. Owlsbane_ , a completely mad-looking witch who had been condemned for mistreatment of her avian familiars. She believed that they were possessed by demons. And she had _plucked_ them as punishment.

At the base of the wall under the painting, Harry found a small bit of pink crystal, very clearly cut, but nothing special in its own right. He pocketed it, and then the two friends realized that they _still_ had no idea where they were, or worse, how to get back. The route they had come had seemingly vanished when they retraced their steps, a blank wall where the doorway had been. Hermione confirmed it was not an illusion. They would have to find another way out.

Hermione was fretting about their things, left unattended in the library, including sheets of notes, while Harry was wondering how they would possibly escape this one. To make things worse, based on his _Tempus_ spell, they were rapidly approaching curfew. Harry began looking around, peeking through doorways and up the stairs, trying to orient himself. Hermione sat down, and Harry was a bit alarmed to see tears in her eyes.

“Are you alright?” he asked anxiously. 

“Do _you_ know a way out?” she retorted sharply. She sighed. “Harry, Hogwarts is enormous and complicated _and_ constantly changing. And I don’t know where we are and we’re lost and we’re already going to be in trouble for being out of bed this late and we’re going to be expelled!” she finished in a rush.

“Hermione. Please calm down,” Harry said to her, a bit of an edge in his voice. She winced. “I’m going to check some of these doors, see if they might lead anywhere we would recognize, and then we can pick a staircase and at least get out of this corridor. Just…stay calm, Hermione.” 

She sniffed. “I know, I know. I’m sorry. I just…I get really worked up about things like this and I’ve always had a bit of a phobia about being lost after Mum was separated from me in the shopping centre in London when I was five,” she explained. “I like to know where I am, Harry, and right now Hogwarts is…well, frightening me.”

Harry nodded. It was rare he saw Hermione go to pieces like this. He wandered down toward the end of the corridor, and found a locked door. Glancing nervously back, he unlocked it with a whisper and a flick of his wand. The door slid open…and Harry stopped dead in his tracks. A massive mirror stood in the centre of the room, a mirror all too familiar to him. Hermione had apparently gotten to her feet, because he jumped when she said from behind him, “What have you found, Harry?” 

“Nothing,” he blurted. “Let’s try somewhere else. He tried to reach in to pull the door shut, and yelped as his hand was stung and met resistance from the air.

“Wards,” Hermione said quietly.

Harry nodded, figuring much the same. He felt the pull of the Mirror of Erised at that moment, and it nearly overwhelmed him. Then he remembered that he had his best friend beside him, and she was worth more than any fantasy.

“This is what you found, isn’t it?” Hermione asked in a whisper. “When you were caught by Professor Dumbledore. What is it?”

“It’s dangerous,” Harry found himself saying. Hermione was staring at it with a strange longing. “Come on,” he said, grabbing her arm. “Let’s try this staircase.” Hermione followed him limply, reluctantly. He squeezed her hand, hard, and she stopped and looked at him, uncertainty in her eyes, but otherwise back to normal. “Come on,” he said again.

They came to a winding marble staircase they had noted before. Ascending it, they found themselves in another dimly-lit corridor, lined with wood panelling and row upon row of magical portraits, most of whom were complaining about the light emanating from the tip of Hermione’s wand. She apologized to them, and gestured Harry forward. His thoughts were still on the Mirror of Erised. _What was it doing down here?_ It was in a different room than before…or so he thought, but he realized that he could not take that fact for granted. 

He was so distracted that he nearly walked into Hermione’s back. Ahead of her was a translucent pale blue figure of a young woman an elegant gown, looking down suspiciously at them. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, her voice high and imperious.

“You’re the Grey Lady, aren’t you?” Hermione asked.

The ghost looked at her curiously for a moment, and then nodded. “I am called such, it is true. You are students.”

“First years,” Hermione supplied.

“Not of my House,” she said dismissively, and turned to go.

“Wait!” Hermione cried.

The gliding ghost continued for a moment, then paused and turned ever-so-slightly.

“It’s true we’re not Ravenclaws, but we could have been, isn’t that right, Harry?”

“My mother was a Ravenclaw,” Harry told her, and it did not really feel like a lie at all. “She was very proud of her house, and thought I might have belonged there.”

The Grey Lady turned her gaze on Hermione. “And your parents, girl?”

“Muggles,” Hermione said, almost sheepishly.

“And you find yourself in the company of one from Salazar’s House? That is quite unusual.” She sighed, an odd smile coming to her lips, but there was something else there, a deep sadness that Harry couldn’t quite place. “I suppose you will be looking for a way out. You see, you have entered what some call The Maze, a collection of disused corridors and rooms that move about the castle, and remain here when they are…not needed.”

“How does that work?” Hermione demanded. “Are we…have we been compressed? Shrunken?”

“Magic makes almost anything possible, my dear,” the Grey Lady said with a wistful sigh. “As my Lady Mother took pains to tell me. She built this place, you know.”

Hermione sucked in a breath. “You’re Helena Ravenclaw. Rowena’s only daughter.”

The story sounded familiar to Harry, but as was so frequently the case, Hermione knew it better than him. Her knowledge of _Hogwarts: A History_ was encyclopaedic.

The ghost looked displeased. “You should have been a Ravenclaw, girl,” she told Hermione. “And you,” she said, turning to Harry, “you are the boy they speak of, the unlikely Slytherin, the one they whisper about. Are you what they say?”

“Almost certainly not,” Hermione answered for him. “Harry has been…mistreated by the other students. They are afraid of him, and so they tell lies and try to make him into a monster. It’s terribly unfair.” 

The ghost gave a sly smile. “I know all about rumours, my dears. Rumours were my downfall. Rumours…and a desire for certain things that were not mine.” She looked Harry over sharply, and he did his best not to seem intimidated. The Grey Lady had a formidable presence about her. “You are an interesting one, of that there is no doubt. I have been here many centuries, paying my penance for my crimes in life. Thievery and betrayal, for that I still suffer.” 

Hermione’s eyes widened a bit. “Paying penance to whom?” she asked in a horrified whisper.

“To myself.” The ghost sighed, or might have, if she still had lungs to expel air. “I had everything, my dear. All I could have ever dreamed of, but it was not enough. I always wanted more. And if my Lady Mother said it would be my undoing, well…that was all the more incentive. We were not in good accord, my Lady Mother and I.”

Harry glanced around. It was certainly an experience to talk to a ghost nearly as old as the castle, but they were still lost and overdue. Harry’s roommates probably wouldn’t notice, but Hermione’s surely would. He would rather she did not get into trouble because of his impulse to explore. It occurred to Harry that maybe this was part of the test the mysterious challengers had given them. 

The Grey Lady had stopped talking, and her eyes were fixed upon Harry. It was deeply unnerving. “Am I boring you, young one?” 

“Not at all,” he said, swallowing nervously. “But we will be missed, and it is well past our curfew. Would you be able to help us find our way out of here?”

Hermione had sucked in a breath as they waited anxiously. “I do not normally give aid to those outside of my House. But you have listened to me, and for that I thank you. One does grow lonely after nearly a thousand years of mindless wandering.” She paused, as if deep in thought. “I believe I know a way for solids to pass.”

“Solids?” Hermione asked.

“As opposed to ghosts,” Harry supplied. The Grey Lady nodded, then turned and began to glide down the corridor. At once she stopped before a blank wall.

“Ah, yes. This should do. Open the door, young one.”

Harry stared at her. All he could see was stone and masonry.

The ghost clucked her tongue. “Oh, but you are young and naïve. You see a wall, of course. But do you _really_? Look closer, my dears.”

Hermione squinted, then gasped. “It’s there, Harry. A door.” Harry tried to find it himself, but to no avail. Impatient and anxious, Hermione walked up to the ‘wall’ and pushed her hand through the stone. She pulled, and at once the illusion was gone, and he saw the corridor on the other side.

Then the Grey Lady passed through Hermione, whose grin of triumph quickly vanished as she shivered violently. Harry laid a hand on her arm. She glanced at him, smiled weakly, and seemed to calm herself. She followed the ghost, who had gone on seemingly heedless of their pause. Harry jogged after her. One more hidden door (Harry was able to see it this time, to his relief), a trick staircase, a locked door, and a brief scare when Hermione swore she heard voices, and they found themselves somehow around the corner from the Gryffindor common room.

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief, stepped forward and opened her mouth to speak the password, then stopped, and hissed something angry under her breath. “The Fat Lady’s gone!” she whispered. “She does this sometimes.” There were tears in her eyes. “Harry, I can’t get in. What am I going to do?”

Harry looked around for their ghostly guide, but the shade of Helena Ravenclaw had vanished. Harry frowned, drew his wand, and spoke _“Alohamora!”_ There was a grinding noise from within the portrait, then silence. Hermione made her own attempt, but the portrait was stuck fast. “Bugger.” He was all too aware that even if he could get Hermione safely inside, he would need to find a way to get back to the Slytherin common room without being seen.

“Any other ideas?” he asked. Getting Hermione thinking was usually a good plan when she was on the verge of panic. As she screwed up her face in concentration, Harry listened carefully, hoping desperately not to hear signs of Filch or Mrs. Norris. The castle was eerily quiet.

Harry stared at the portrait, and an idea struck him. It was mad, and it almost certainly would not work, but it was worth a try. He was certain that their mysterious challengers lived in Hermione’s dormitory, and had the additional characteristics of being red-haired, stocky, and identical. “We have done your bidding, Gred and Forge,” he said clearly, recalling a joke he had overheard some time ago. And then, for reasons he did not entirely understand, two words came to the tip of his tongue, like the ghost of a memory long since lost. “Mischief managed.” 

And with that, the empty portrait swung open.

Hermione stared at him in astonishment. “What? How did you?”

Harry was failing to keep a smirk of triumph off his face. “It was obvious, really.” Though where the last two words had come from, he had no notion. _Something Daphne said, maybe?_ It did not really sound like her, but maybe it was something someone else had said to her, once. Maybe… _Could it have been my parents? My father? Would I remember something like that?_

She frowned. “I suppose it was.” She made to step through the doorway, then stopped. “Come with me.”

Harry started. “What?”

“I know as well as you do that you don't have a chance at reaching your dormitory without being seen. I don’t want you to get in trouble. Not when…not when you’ve already saved me that fate.” She bit her lip, nervously. Then she waved him forward. “Quickly, before the Fat Lady gets back. I doubt she’ll take kindly to seeing you here.”

"Hermione..."

It was then that he heard the unmistakable echo of footsteps in silent stone corridors. Filch, probably. That made his decision considerably easier.

And so, with no small trepidation, he clambered through the portrait hole and found himself once more behind enemy lines, as it were. Hermione carefully shut the door behind him. 

“I’m not sure what to do with you,” she admitted. “I don’t…it’s probably for the best if no one else knows you are here. Hang on, I’m going to make sure we’re alone.” 

Harry waited in the shadows until she returned. “Alright, everyone else has gone to bed. It’s nearly quarter past one in the morning, can you believe that?”

“We went a long way,” Harry said. “And we had to come back a way that was, I think, longer still.”

Hermione nodded at that explanation. “I suppose it wouldn’t be a good idea for you to kip on the couches, though. Not wearing those,” she said, gesturing at his green and silver-trimmed school robes. “Although…” she said, thinking. Then she drew her wand. “ _Rufus_ ,” she whispered. Green turned to muddy red, though spots of silver remained. “Sorry, I’ve never actually tried it before.”

“Hermione, they are probably going to be able to identify me regardless of my robes,” he pointed out. “But it’s better than nothing, I suppose.”

Hermione shrugged. They stood there for a moment, and then she laughed. 

Harry raised an eyebrow.

“It’s just that I never in my wildest dreams thought I would find myself in this position,” she said sheepishly. “Having to hide a _boy_ , a Slytherin no less, in my own dormitory.” She giggled again. “Oh God, I am tired.”

“I can still leave,” he offered. It was possible that with luck and Silencing Charms he could evade the Caretaker and his damn cat. 

“No,” she said firmly. She walked over to the hearth, where the remnants of a fire still warmed the room and bathed the room in a pale golden light. Hermione sat down on the scarlet carpet and beckoned him to join her. He did, sitting beside her, just staring into the smoldering ashes for what felt like ages. And then the spell was broken.

“Harry, what _was_ in that room you dragged me away from? What was in that mirror?”

He stiffened for a moment, and then the words came out of his mouth like a burgeoning torrent from a cracked dam, streams of vague descriptions and non-answers, then more and more details, until the last of his resistance gave way. He told her about what he had seen, about his fantasies and dreams of a family whole and loving, a brother to share his adolescence, parents he would never know. Midway through she clasped his hands and leaned into him, nestling her bushy hair against his shoulder, and Harry found he didn’t really mind that at all.

When he was finished, she looked up at him, the last traces of firelight glistening in her warm brown eyes. “Thank you, Harry,” she said quietly. “Thank you for trusting me.”

Harry tried to come up with a response, but merely nodded. Hermione looked at him for a long moment, eyes searching his for answers to an unspoken question. Harry blinked in confusion, and she shook her head, sighing. “I’m really glad we’re friends, Harry.”

“Me too.”

“Even if you do have me breaking a whole lot more rules that I ever dreamed of,” she added with a toothy grin.

“I can’t stay like this, in the open, all night.”

“I know,” she said. “But we can stay here a bit longer, unless you want to move.”

“No,” he replied. His best friend sighed against him as they stared into the cooling embers of the fire, each lost in thought, but grounded firmly in the friendship they shared.

 

 

Along with the rest of their schoolwork, Harry insisted that he and Hermione continue to learn combat spells well beyond the first year curriculum. When she had questioned his eagerness to be able perform magic that could be used to hurt and maim others, he had gotten rather angry with her.

 

_“Hermione, we need to learn these spells and how to use them, because you can be sure that Malfoy and a whole lot of other Pureblood snots who think you don’t deserve a magical education have been working on these for years.”_

_She got huffy. “I just don’t think we should be looking for trouble.”_

_Harry stared at her incredulously. “Are you serious? Being my friend isn’t a…a safe life choice, Hermione, I feel as though that’s pretty clear now.”_

_“We’re not going to be attacked by a troll every day,” she protested, reddening. “Besides, that wouldn’t even have happened if it weren’t for me.”_

_“Don’t start,” he warned her, and she looked hurt by his tone. “Hermione, I just want to keep us safe. Hogwarts is a wonderful place, yes. But it is also a dangerous place, and if either of us gets hurt…or worse,” he managed, “I don’t want it to be because we didn’t try hard enough to learn to defend ourselves.”_

After watching Harry shoved to the ground, pushed into a wall, and even have his robes set alight in as many days, all by unseen assailants with no witnesses, Hermione saw his point. Harry was still not well-liked in Slytherin, and some barely tolerated him, especially after he had been docked twenty points when he was caught sneaking out of the Gryffindor common room early in the morning by Filch, who seemed to have been waiting for him. He had been dragged before McGonagall, who had, mercifully, not questioned what Harry was doing in his rivals’ dormitory at that hour. He had fallen asleep leaning against one of the legs of the couch Hermione ended up sprawled out on, refusing to leave him, his hand clasped in hers until he awoke.

Hermione had been spared the ire of his classmates for now, but he was getting increasingly worried. She was already a target as a Muggleborn. Being with him only made things worse.

No matter how hard they practiced though, they seemed to have hit a wall. Harry had wanted to try some more difficult curses, such as Cutting and Slicing Curses, but found himself unable to perform them at all. From their reading, Harry and Hermione had learned that they required emotional focus as well as magical power to cast proficiently. Hermione thought it likely that the two first years were too emotionally immature and magically raw to perform them, much to Harry’s chagrin. He rather hated being reminded how young he was. _I don’t feel eleven,_ he had protested, but it had gotten him nothing but a condescending pat on the shoulder from his best friend. 

Bullying was not the only reason they worked so hard. Mindful of Hermione’s notion that it was _Quirrell_ , not Snape, trying to steal the Philosopher’s Stone, Harry was watching him carefully in class. But this proved fruitless, as Quirrell was either exactly as meek as he seemed, or an incredibly good actor. There were some suspicious moments, such as when Quirrell seemed all too happy to answer a question Draco Malfoy posed on the Blinding Curse, before reverting back to his skittish ways. “…well actually, M-m-mister M-m-malfoy, I think we had b-b-best leave that t-t-topic be.”

They had moved on to discussing treatment for werewolf bites, a topic that had Quirrell trembling, making his stutter even worse, to the point where Harry understood maybe one word in three.

What did interrupt their cycle of learning and work was a one-line note from Hagrid on a Tuesday morning, reminding them of an inconvenient development that both of them had _nearly_ managed to forget.

_It’s Hatching._

Their first free period, Harry and Hermione met in the Entrance Hall and made their way to see the Gamekeeper. Out of the corner of his eyes, Harry couldn’t help but notice all of the things made of _wood_ on the grounds - the covered bridge, the grandstands of the Quidditch Pitch, _Hagrid’s hut_ \- and wondering just how badly this entire situation was going to spin out of control. Hermione, despite her best efforts, definitely shared his pessimism, though she was a bit more charitable in her verbal assessment of Hagrid’s judgment.

All of the doors and windows of the two-room dwelling were closed when Hagrid rushed them through the door, and the hut had become a furnace. On top of the battered wooden table lay a large, grey-green egg, twitching ever so slightly. Also present were Ron Weasley, who gave Harry an unpleasant look but said nothing else, and Neville Longbottom, looking cowed and anxious as usual. Condensation was starting to form on Harry’s glasses when Ron finally gave in and opened a window.

Hagrid didn’t notice. He clapped in excitement as a small beak punched through the shell, hissing quietly. The rest of the egg began to ripple and crack, and within seconds, a baby Norwegian Ridgeback shook off a mix of yolk and broken shell. Hagrid was grinning madly through his thick beard, and actually cooed when the creature emitted a squeaky croak. 

“I’ve decided to call ‘im Norbert,” he said proudly. All four first years stared, momentarily united in disbelief.

A cold gust of wind had Harry glancing to his right, towards the window that Ron had opened, which meant he was able to see Draco Malfoy’s wide grey eyes staring right back at him. On instinct, he drew his wand with a snap of the wrist, aimed and barked, _“Stupefy!”_ in one motion. The best Stunner he’d yet cast hit Draco square in the face and he vanished from view.

“ _Harry!_ ” Hermione shouted in alarm. Ron was staring at him open-mouthed.

“Who was that?” Hagrid demanded, turning on him, shock competing with fury across his features. “What’d you do, ‘Arry?”

Harry took a deep breath. “That was Draco Malfoy. And that was a Stunning Spell.”

Ron was looking at him with something akin to respect, and it rather floored him.

Hermione was less pleased. “You can’t go around hexing people like that!” 

“Would you rather Hagrid get arrested for illegal possession of a dragon?” Harry released a breath he had not realized he was holding. “I’m going to have to learn Memory Charms, I have a feeling I’ll be needing them.” 

Hermione gaped at him. “ _Memory Charms_? Do you have any idea how dangerous those are? You could try to erase the last five minutes and completely wipe away their lives!”

“I know, that’s why I’m not fooling around with them until I’m really good at them,” Harry said. Weasley was still staring at him. “What?” 

The other boy shook his head. “Nothing. Nice spell, Potter.”

Harry stared at him in confusion for a moment, then mumbled, “Thanks.”

“So you and Malfoy don’t get along then?” Ron asked.

Harry could think of many possible replies, but settled for: “No.”

“Oh,” Ron replied, as if this was the last thing he had expected. The boy really was thick.

“So, what are we going to do about _Norbert?”_ Neville asked, breaking the awkward silence.

“I’m gonna keep ‘im, o’course,” Hagrid said stubbornly, puffing out his ample chest. “Can’t exactly let ‘him loose now, can I?”

“Hagrid…you live in a _wooden house_ ,” Hermione protested. “And I’ve read about dragons, he’ll be bigger than this place in a few _months_. What you’ve done is _illegal –_ you could be sent to prison!”

Hagrid honestly looked as if he had not spent a moment to consider any of that. “Well…I ‘spose yer right, actually. But I can’t just abandon ‘im.”

_And not just for his sake,_ Harry thought, thinking of the Forbidden Forest, of Hogwarts, of the highlands of Scotland.

“I know!” Ron said excitedly. “Do you remember my brother, Charlie?”

Hagrid brightened at the name. “O’course! He stopped by quite ‘o bit, to see what interestin’ creatures I had on me. Very good student of Professor Grubby-Plank, too. Brought that Tonks girl sometimes; real funny one, that lass." 

Harry stifled a laugh. “I spent the holidays with her.” 

Hagrid nodded, smiling wistfully. “So Ron, yeh think Charlie can take care o’ Norbert, then?”

The redhead frowned. “Well, he works at a dragon reserve in Romania. Surely he would have an idea of what we might do with him. I’ll write him as soon as I can.”

Hagrid still looked reluctant at the idea of giving away his newest family member, but nodded. “Alright, yeh do that…”

“So, now that that’s settled,” Hermione said bossily. “What exactly were you planning to do with Malfoy _after_ you knocked him out, Harry?”

It seemed that he was not the _only_ one in the cabin that had not quite thought through the consequences of his actions.

 

 

'Agonizing' was the best way to describe the passage of the new few days. Harry and Hermione had dragged Draco to the entrance of the Forbidden Forest, where Hagrid had promised he would be safe (for what _that_ was worth), desperately hoping that he might suffer the brief amnesia that sometimes accompanied a strong Stunning Spell. But a day after the incident, Malfoy had been glaring daggers at Harry, and while he had not been called into Snape’s office yet, he was worried that his housemate remembered a great deal more of what had happened than Harry would have liked.

And if he knew he had been stunned, he might also remember the dragon.

Snape’s treatment of him had not improved, but it had not grown worse either, which would have been expected if he had known his favourite target was involved in something illegal. He had been outright horrid to Hermione, but that was little surprise. He did his best to prevent them working together, but the ‘brat-who-lived’ and Gryffindor’s ‘insufferable know-it-all’ were rather good at timing their arrivals to foil his design, not that each wasn’t the subject of a few choice remarks from time-to-time. Snape could not resort to criticizing their efforts – the duo was among the best in the class, despite Draco Malfoy’s penchant for lobbing potions ingredients at their cauldron. In thwarting that, both his hand-eye-coordination and awareness of his surroundings proved crucial. Hermione had convinced him _not_ to deter Draco by quick-drawing his wand, sensibly arguing that Snape would at best accuse him of cheating or at worst view his actions as provocative. Here as elsewhere, Hermione’s focus on the quality of their schoolwork helped to calm his desire to fight back against bad odds. 

Ron managed to catch Hermione meeting Harry outside the Great Hall four days later, a letter clasped in his hand. He looked at Harry uncomfortably, ignoring Hermione completely. They found a secluded corner where they could look over Charlie’s response.

 

_Little Ronnie,_

_Sounds like you are in quite a bind – has Hagrid completely lost it? Norwegian Ridgebacks are very rare, and very dangerous, though I probably could say that of any dragon. Still, when they grow up? Well, I heard about one that got loose when I first started here, an old tale that’s probably been embellished for fifty-odd years, but still, a town levelled is nothing to scoff at._

_I ran it by the rest of the staff, and they all agree that it would be a coup to get a hold of a young Ridgeback. And more importantly, a few of my old school friends are willing to come out to Hogwarts to get him here. They’re always up for a bit of an adventure._

_So, brother, it’s up to you and your friends to get him to the top of the Astronomy Tower Wednesday night for a quick pick-up. If you think you can manage that, owl back ASAP._

_Love,_

_Charlie_

 

They brought the news to Hagrid later that afternoon, and he did not take it well.

Harry winced as Hagrid blew his nose into a handkerchief the size of the tablecloth. “We’re gettin’ on so well, yeh know. ‘e thinks I’m ‘is mother, and ‘e’s only burned me three or four times.” As if on cue, Norbert lazily blew out a streak of flame, catching Hagrid’s beard alight. Hermione managed to extinguish it quickly, though Hagrid was left sopping wet from her Charm.

“How are we going to get to the Astronomy Tower at midnight without getting caught?” she asked when she had finished containing the most recent near-disaster. “Think of the points we could lose!”

“Are points all you ever think about?” Ron demanded.

Neville made his presence felt. “She’s right though, Ron. Especially after what happened last time we went wandering after curfew.”

Ron shivered a bit at that memory. “So what about you, Potter?”

Harry sighed. “I’m with Hermione on this one. I’m on thin ice with my housemates as it is, if I got caught out of bed…again,” he amended, “things could get really bad.”

“You telling me you’re scared?” Ron taunted.

Harry glared at him.

Hagrid was looking more uncomfortable by the minute. “Look, all of yeh. I don’t want yeh stickin’ yer necks out fer my sake. I’ll just…well, ‘m not sure what I’ll do, but I’ll think o’ sommat.”

Hermione looked at Harry nervously. “Hagrid, you could be _arrested_ if this doesn’t work! I’ll…” she swallowed. “I’ll go, then.” She glanced at Harry. “I suppose I have had a bit of practice recently sneaking about.” She sounded oddly pleased with herself.

Harry stared at them, not sure what to do. The prospect of further alienating himself from his House was not an inviting one. “I do have something that might help – I got a Sneakoscope for Christmas, a special one.” He explained Justin Dressler’s gift, and Ron’s eyes lit up.

“Brilliant!”

"You'll still have to avoid being seen,” Harry warned him. “And you’ll only be alerted if you’re about to encounter a teacher, or Filch, or maybe the Head Boy or Girl. If you run into a prefect…your brother, for example, it won't be any help.”

Ron’s enthusiasm cooled a bit at that. “Yeah. I could ask Fred and George for help? Maybe they could set something up, a distraction of some kind. They’re actually on good terms with Peeves.”

“That sounds like a horrid idea,” Hermione protested. “We can’t have a plan that hinges on Peeves doing anything.”

“It was just a thought,” Ron replied, sounding hurt.

Hermione was staring at Harry oddly. “You aren’t coming, are you?”

“What?” Ron demanded. “Come on Potter, be brave for once.”

“Leave him alone,” Neville said softly, almost too quiet to be heard. “He’s had a rough time with his housemates, you heard him. Suppose he loses a load of points, then what happens to him? Remember the looks we got from those seventh years after Professor McGonagall took points off us for being tardy? Now think about what _he’s_ going to go through. And they already don’t like him.”

Harry threw a grateful look in the direction of the other Gryffindor boy, who suddenly found the floorboards absolutely fascinating. 

“We need to think this through,” Hermione said. “I’ve been practicing Silencing Charms, so that should help. Harry, could we at least have your…Sneakoscope, you called it?”

Harry nodded. “I’ll give it to you next time I have a chance.”

“Alright, we’re settled then. I guess it will be you, Neville and me, Ron?” Hermione looked rather unhappy at the prospect. Her eyes were silently begging Harry to reconsider.

“Guess it will be,” Ron said. He grinned as he looked around the room. “Hey, we’re Gryffindors for a reason, right?”

"Right," she swallowed. 

 

 

 

Their plan, such as it was, was short-lived. 

After agreeing on the basics, Weasley slipped the note into a textbook and they left for dinner. Unfortunately, the next day did not bring good news. After first period, Neville found Harry and Hermione studying in the library to tell them that Ron was in Hospital Wing.

“The bloody thing _bit_ me! Merlin, I can’t wait until we’re rid of it!” Weasley said as they stood by his bedside, much too loud. Hermione shushed him, while Harry looked at his hand.

“Does Madam Pomfrey know what happened?” Harry asked, concerned.

“I told her I was bitten by a dog,” Ron replied. He grimaced. “I don’t think she believed me, but she didn’t ask again.”

“I suppose that she must see all kinds of weird things.”

“The fangs were poisoned, though. She got to it quickly, so I should be alright.”

“Thank goodness for that!” Neville said. Harry did not entirely share the sentiment. Ron still irritated him.

Weasley looked rather pale. “And something else happened.”

"Go on," Harry said, a bit of menace in his voice. He had a _very_ bad feeling about where this was going, and felt Hermione’s hand brush his arm in warning.

When Harry heard what Ron had to say, it was all he could do not to explode.

“ _What do you mean you LOST the letter?_ ”

“It was in my Transfiguration textbook, ‘cause I was using it as a page marker, and then someone asked to borrow it, and…oh no,” Ron said, looking horrified. “I lent it to Pansy Parkinson.”

Harry was beside himself. “You _idiot!”_

“ _Harry!”_ Hermione hissed at him. “You aren’t helping.”

Harry fixed Weasley with a dark look. “If _you_ get caught, you’ll lose some points and get a detention. If _I_ get caught, my housemates might kill me and make it look like an accident. And you just gave the note to _Draco Malfoy_.”

“Well, Pansy...”

“Are you really that thick?” Harry demanded. “Who do you think _told_ her to ask to borrow your book?”

“Oh…Fred and George said they would help, though!” Ron said. “They’ll have Peeves trashing the equipment in the Divination Tower around midnight. I think they’re holding out on me, though. They’ve done this loads of times without getting caught. Well, maybe without the dragon, but…” 

Harry looked him over. “I’m going to assume you won’t be able to go.”

Ron looked rather crestfallen. “Sorry, mates.” 

“It’s not your fault… _this_ , at least,” Harry managed. “Why can’t your brother meet us at Hagrid’s hut? Surely that would be easier?”

“His new note said something about wards,” Ron explained. “Apparently something like this has been tried before, and they got detected when they landed on the grounds. But the wards don’t extend up to the top of the castle. Or something like that.”

Harry was sceptical that was the whole story, but he trusted that Charlie, at least, knew what he was doing. 

“Neville, we're going to have to manage on our own,” Hermione said with a sigh.

Neville looked ill.

“Potter...?” Ron asked.

“I'll think about it.”

“ _Think_ about it?” Ron sounded outraged. “So you’ll have Hermione and Neville risk their necks, but you won’t do it yourself? You really are a slimy Slytherin _coward_.”

“At least I’m not an impulsive thoughtless _moron,”_   Harry fired back hotly.

“ _Enough_ you two,” Hermione snapped. “This isn’t helping anything.”

“I’ll go,” said Neville, who sounded less than sure about his decision. “I mean, the Sorting Hat made me a Gryffindor for a reason. I think?”

The way his voice trailed off did not suggest confidence.

“Maybe we can get Norbert into the castle during the day,” Hermione suggested. “That way we won’t have to risk sneaking onto the grounds in the middle of the night.” 

“Where would we put him?” Harry asked.

Hermione smiled. “I’ve got an idea.”

 

 

 

“Watch it!” 

“I _am_ watching it!”

“Okay, one more flight of stairs.”

“Thank goodness!”

“We could be doing this _without_ magic, you realize.”

“Well, _yes_.”

Harry, Hermione, and a heavy iron crate containing a sleeping dragon and his drug-laced steaks were in the stairwell nearest the Entrance Hall. A pair of Hufflepuffs passed by them, looking rather baffled as to what on earth they could be doing. Harry gave them a wry smile, then continued to wrangle the crate, covered by a blanket, around a too-tight bend, with Harry struggling to maintain the Levitation Charm he had cast on it, and Hermione trying not to bump the crate into the walls or stairs, which might wake Norbert and very quickly put an end to their scheme. Possibly with incendiary consequences.

Harry was just begging the spirits of Hogwarts that Snape did not come across them – no explanation was likely to settle his vicious curiosity. Finally, they were onto the second floor landing.

“So where are we going, anyway?”

“The girl’s toilet,” she said simply.

Harry was sure he had not heard correctly. “The _what_?”

“Haven’t you… _ungh_ …heard of…Moaning Myrtle?” Hermione was winded from the effort of pushing the large cage around, even it was levitating.

“Who?”

“Miss Granger. Mr. Potter. May I inquire as to what exactly you are doing?”

Harry looked up in alarm to see Professor Dumbledore lazily leaning against the opposite wall. He could have sworn they were alone the lack time he checked.

“Just something for Professor…err, Flitwick,” Hermione supplied. “He asked us to move a crate of books for him.”

“Did he now?” Dumbledore asked, an odd twinkle in his eyes. “Well, if that is the case, I shan’t keep you. Best of luck to you both.” He turned and walked away as Harry stared at Hermione in disbelief.

“Good one,” he said when the Headmaster had gone.

“I can’t believe that worked,” she replied.

_I’m not sure it did._ But Harry kept his thoughts to himself.

“Best take advantage of it then,” Harry advised breathlessly.

Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom was a mess, the floors covered in a few centimetres of sloshing water, mirrors cracked, two toilets clearly broken, and the sinks looking like they had not been cleaned in ages. Then, of course, there was the occupant.

_“Why is there a_ boy _in here?”_ a small ghost shrieked. She had a round face, straight black hair in pigtails, and enormous glasses that framed wide eyes radiating terror alternating with a strange glee.

“He’s a friend, don’t worry!” Hermione told her, palms out. “We just need to hide something in here. You don’t mind, do you?” 

Myrtle scowled at them. “Why of course you can just come into _my home_ and leave your things about.” She started to sob, loudly, and water came flooding out of one of the broken toilets.

“You would be _helping_ someone,” Hermione told her, holding out her hands in a placating gesture. “Someone who is in trouble. You want to help, don’t you, Myrtle? Look, I promise…I promise if you let us keep this here, just for this evening, I’ll come by and tell you…” she glanced nervously at Harry, pink blossoming on her cheeks “…tell you about the boys in my year.”

Harry coughed down a burst of laughter. “Sorry. Allergies,” he lied. 

Hermione looked furious, but continued her performance for Myrtle. “Is that alright?”

Myrtle giggled, a high-pieced squeak that was entirely inhuman. “Oh, that sounds _lovely_. Will I be hearing about _this_ one?” Despite being a boy of eleven, Harry had the distinct feeling that the look she was giving him was not entirely innocent. He nearly gagged at the thought.

Hermione’s blush spread. “Maybe,” she said, very deliberately not looking at Harry. He managed to control himself a bit better this time.

“Alright then,” Myrtle said cheerfully. “I do like your company, Hermione. I like it when I have others to cry with, and it has been months!”

“I’ve missed you too, Myrtle,” Hermione said, very clearly lying.

“We should go,” Harry suggested.

“Alright,” the ghost giggled. “Bye then.”

Hermione turned to Harry. “Do you think it will be safe here?”

“The cage is Silenced, the potion-drenched steaks have kept him out so far, and he’ll have trouble setting fire to anything in here,” he whispered back. “I think it’s as good a plan as any.”

“Great,” Hermione said, not exactly brimming with confidence.

 

 

 

The plan was that Hermione and Neville would not return to their dormitory, but hide in an empty classroom on the second floor until a quarter to midnight. Then, with the benefit of a distraction arranged by Fred and George, they would rush Norbert to the waiting fliers, and then somehow get back to their dormitory undetected. 

Harry sat anxiously in the Slytherin common room until late that evening, a part of him very much wishing he was not being so cautious. Hermione had been such an amazing friend to him, and now, when she could have used him, he was leaving her on her own. It was the _smart_ thing to do, he kept telling himself. But was it the _right_ thing?

Disgusted with himself, Harry retired earlier than usual, though most of his roommates were already asleep. Then he made two observations that changed everything. The first was a folded bundle of shining silver, with a small note on top of it.

_Your father left this in my possession when he died. It is yours by right, and so I return it to you. Use it well._

There was no name, but at that instant the behaviour of Albus Dumbledore this afternoon made a great deal more sense. Who else could have sent this? And had it delivered, inside his locked four-poster bed? Harry picked up the gift…and stopped, his jaw dropping as his hand vanished from sight. This was no ordinary gift. He unfolded it and wrapped it around his body to be certain, but he was right. It was an Invisibility Cloak. A real one, the kind that existed only in legends and stories of great wizards of the past. It had belonged to his _father_? The Potters were an old line, yes, but this? This was extraordinary. 

There was also only one reason Harry could conceive why Dumbledore had given this to him on this particular night. _This is a challenge…of sorts,_ he thought. _Are you really just another Slytherin out for only himself, or more than that?_

Right about now, Neville and Hermione would emerge from their cover and begin to move Norbert. And here he was, sitting by himself in his dormitory, rather than at their side, possessing a means of moving about the castle entirely unseen. Keeping it from his friends. 

Then he noticed something else: Draco Malfoy’s bed was empty, and he had not been in the common room when Harry left.

_I guess I don’t really have any choice, then. So much for discretion over valour._

 

Harry quickly decided that the Invisibility Cloak was quite possibly the most wonderful thing he had ever possessed, especially when he rounded a corner and saw Snape approaching furiously. The Potions Master slowed as he came near to Harry, then shook his head and continued to pound down the hall. Harry let out a sigh of relief, and continued on his way. 

He was nearing the final staircase to the Astronomy Tower when someone abruptly collided with him. He fell silently, and looked up to see Neville Longbottom looking around in frightened bewilderment. Harry threw off the hood and cancelled the Silencing Charm. “Neville, it’s me,” he whispered.

“What? Oh Merlin, you scared me! How are you…your head, it’s floating!”

In the distance, Harry heard crashing and possibly something exploding. “That’s our distraction,” he murmured. “Oh, right, sorry. I…uh, just got this. It’s an Invisibility Cloak.”

Fortunately, Neville was too flustered to ask how it was he had just acquired this remarkable item. “Right, err…there’s a problem.”

“Where’s Hermione?"

“Well, _that’s_ the problem. She fell.”

Harry’s blood ran cold. “ _What?_ ”

“She’s okay, well…I think. But her leg’s hurt, and she can’t put weight on it, and I was going to see if…well, if I could find you, actually, though I didn’t think I would be able to get into the Slytherin dormitory…I don’t actually know where it is, you see, so I'm _really_ glad you're here!”

Harry stared at him for a moment, making up his mind. Self-preservation or selflessness and loyalty? _This is exactly what you wanted, isn’t it?_

“Neville, you’ve risked enough. Take this.”  He shucked the cloak and handed it to the baffled Gryffindor. “Just put it on, and be careful not to make much noise. Get back to Gryffindor Tower and keep it safe, you understand? It was my Dad’s, and I won’t have it lost the day I finally got it back.”

“Sure,” Neville said, looking a bit intimidated. How on _earth_ had the Sorting Hat put this boy in Gryffindor? 

Harry clapped him on the shoulder. “Alright, go. Now, before anyone comes. I’ll look after Hermione." 

“Alright then…good luck, Harry.”

“Thanks, Neville.”

The Gryffindor vanished from sight, and eventually he even got the hang of moving silently. Harry was long gone, though, racing up the stairs until he found himself directly below the Astronomy Tower. The chamber below the roof was empty but for a display case with an animated model of the solar system and an enchanted zodiac tapestry on the wall.

“ _Harry?”_

He turned and hurried toward the voice, whispering a Lighting Charm. Hermione was propped up against the wall, hiding in the shadows. Her face was pale and sweaty. “What happened? Are you alright?”

“It’s my leg,” she moaned softly. “I think my ankle’s broken.”

“How?” he asked, kneeling in front of her, laying a reassuring hand on her shoulder. Her free hand came up to claim it.

Hermione's voice shook. “The stairs – one of them just cracked open and crumbled when Neville and I were coming down. And Harry – I thought I saw someone. I think it was a spell, to weaken the step.” She pointed to the staircase, and ten steps up, he saw the damage.

“Malfoy,” he hissed. He wished that he knew healing spells. “Okay, we need to get you out of here.” 

She nodded, brown eyes locking with his. “You came.” Her fingers tightened their grip, and he squeezed back as he answered.

“I got a bit of encouragement,” he said. She blinked at that, then grimaced as she tried to move her leg. “Okay,” he said, dimming his wand after he had taken a look at Hermione’s ankle. It was bruised and swollen by at least half again, meaning that, based on his admittedly limited knowledge of medical matters, she either had a break or a very bad sprain. Malfoy could have killed her with his little stunt. He wondered if the boy would have cared.

_I'_ _ll make him care_ , Harry thought darkly.

“Norbert’s away, at least,” she said, grinning weakly. “Charlie’s wonderful, much more pleasant than Ronald.” 

“Glad to hear it,” he said. “Do you think if I supported you you’d be able to walk?”

“Maybe?” she said. She let out a little sob, and Harry could see she was shaking. “It _hurts_ , Harry.” Her hand was like a vice grip.

“I’m impressed at how well you’re handling it,” he said, genuine admiration in his voice. She smiled slightly, then yelped as he tried to move her. His hand hurt from where her fingers were crushing it, but he ignored that. He didn’t dare risk Levitating her – not in the dark, and not when his control over the spell was limited to begin with. It was always harder to cast spells on living subjects. He offered her his other arm, lifting their clasped hands without letting go, and she fought her way to her feet using her good leg.

“Where will we go?”

“We’ll think of something,” Harry whispered. “I think we have enough time.”

“Well, I would disagree with _that_ , boy,” a harsh voice croaked at them. Harry raised his wand to illuminate the Caretaker and his cat. Mrs. Norris yowled at them angrily. “Students out of bed, and you _again_. Oh, you’ll pay this time.”

“She’s hurt,” Harry told him. “We need to get her to Hospital Wing.”

“ _First,_ ” said Filch, “I’m taking you to your Head of House. He’ll sort you out, he will.”

Filch’s threats were interrupted, however, by the sound of agitated and familiar voices.

“… _Mr. Malfoy this is_ absurd _. I warn you, if you are having me on…”_

_“I promise, ma’am, they have a_ dragon! _In the Astronomy Tower!_ ”

Harry looked back at Hermione in utter horror. Her eyes were closed, though from the pain or her what she knew was about to happen he couldn’t be sure. Filch grinned like a maniac.

Professor McGonagall, looking quite displeased in her tartan robes and nightcap, was dragging Draco Malfoy by the arm. He pointed frantically at Harry and Hermione. “See, I _told_ you they were here!” 

McGonagall met his gaze, and he winced. “Well I _never_. You _again_ , Mr. Potter? And Miss Granger, I expected far better of you.”

“Professor, my leg,” Hermione began.

The Deputy Headmistress blinked. “What about your leg, child?”

“It’s hurt. I fell, you see, down those stairs.”

Draco flashed a vicious smile, and any doubt Harry had at who was responsible for Hermione’s fall vanished in an instant. _He’s going to pay for that_.

McGonagall came over to take a look. “Broken, most likely.” She waved her wand and a splint appeared and wrapped around Hermione's ankle. “Mr. Potter, you will assist Miss Granger to the Hospital Wing. Mr. Malfoy, you will come as well.”

Madam Pomfrey was in a rather bad mood after being woken from sleep, but she mended Hermione’s ankle in minutes, bandaging the limb and giving the younger girl a walking stick so she could keep weight off it for the next few days. That was the good news. As soon as the Matron had gone, McGonagall turned to them, looking absolutely furious. “All of you should be _ashamed_ of your actions. I do not know what exactly you and Mr. Potter were doing in the Astronomy Tower, Miss Granger, but regardless, you were out of bounds after curfew. Fifty points will be deducted from Gryffindor.” 

What little blood was left in Hermione’s face drained in an instant. “ _Professor_ …”

“As for you two,” she said, turning to Harry and Draco, almost shaking with fury. Harry’s hands felt clammy from fear.  

“Mister Malfoy was feeding me some cock-and-bull story about a dragon, and it seems obvious you and Miss Granger tried to play a prank on him. Well, I believe a heavy punishment is in order for these childish antics. You must not be wandering the corridors at night. Especially at this time.”

Her words hung heavy in the air. And then the blow came.

She cleared her throat. “One-hundred and twenty points will be deducted from Slytherin, seventy from Mr. Potter, as this is his second offence (she gave him a slightly apologetic look as his face paled), and fifty from Mr. Malfoy.” 

“ _Seventy_ _”?_ Harry breathed.

McGonagall nodded. “Yes, Mr. Potter, seventy points. And all three of you will receive a detention at a later date. Mr. Filch, please escort these two back to the Dungeons. I will take Miss Granger back to her dormitory.”

Hermione looked like she was going to faint. She was more terrified of Professor McGonagall at that moment than she ever had been of the troll. Madam Pomfrey returned, and helped the young Gryffindor get to her feet. She threw a desperate look at Harry, but he was lost in his own thoughts. Things had been rather unpleasant within his House. Thanks to his spontaneous act of chivalry (it did seem that Neville had escaped punishment), it was about to get a whole lot worse.

Filch was muttering to his cat as he led the way back, given Harry and Draco a chance to snipe at one another.

“Nice going, Potter,” he hissed angrily. “You’ve lost us the bloody Cup, in one night. You’re finished. You and your Mudblood.”

“Did I misunderstand Professor McGonagall when she also took fifty points from _you_? And after all, this is _your_ fault, when it comes down to it.”

“ _My_ fault?” Draco hissed, outraged.

Harry fixed him with as cold a glare as an eleven-year old could muster. “You were so determined to catch us breaking rules that your actions cost our House 120 points. I don’t know about you, Malfoy, but I always got the sense that Slytherins were in the House Tournament to _win_ , not to police their housemates. But what do _I_ know, after all?”

“ _I_ have a reputation around here, Potter. You’re nothing. You’re a disgrace to Slytherin.”

“We’ll see just how much that matters to the rest of the people in our House tomorrow, I reckon,” Harry replied sharply.

Filch hissed at them to be quiet. Draco looked mutinous, but Harry just stared at the floor and wondered how things had gone so wrong so fast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you end up in the same place, just by a different path. One way or another, I needed to get Harry and Hermione into the Forbidden Forest.


	12. The Wraith in the Woods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ten years after Godric's Hollow, Harry comes face to face with evil.

“Come on, it isn’t _that_ hard.”

“Easy for _you_ to say.” Hermione glared at him as she again mounted his Nimbus, staring at it as if she expected it to bite her at any moment. “Alright. I’m on this time.” 

“Good,” Harry said, trying to disguise his impatience and sound encouraging. He must not have done a very good job of it, as Hermione quickly went from looking terrified to scowling fiercely. “Alright, now kick off from the ground. You’ve done this before.”

“All of twice!” she protested.

“Well, that’s why we’re here to work on it. It’s a useful thing to be able to fly a broom.”

“ _Is_ it? I would imagine the practical uses of brooms are rather limited. I was reading about Magical transportation, and about the Floo networks, which are just the most astounding thing. And then there’s Apparition, of course, though we won’t be allowed to do that until we come of age.”

Hermione was doing a lot of talking and very little flying. Finally, he coaxed her into the air. He quickly realized that giving her the sporty Nimbus was a mistake, as it was a whole lot more sensitive to her occasional flailing and panicked movements. They switched off, with Harry now hovering astride his racing broom and Hermione on one of the better kept Shooting Star 4’s that he was able to find in the school broom shed.

Of course, they were both guilty of avoiding inconvenient truths at that moment. It was less than a week after Norbert had been sent off with Charlie at the cost of 120 points from Slytherin and 50 from Gryffindor. Harry had never been popular within his House, and many still viewed him as an intruder. Now some of them angrily whispered of him conspiring to win the House Cup for Gryffindor.

He had been ‘accidentally’ knocked into walls and shoved to the floor, had food ‘accidentally’ dropped on him, and been not-so-‘accidentally’ hit with a barrage of minor hexes in the hallways. Mostly Stinging Hexes, but occasionally more unpleasant spells. Hermione helped him sort it out as quickly as possible. Of course, he had no evidence as to who had hexed him, so there was little to nothing he could do.

Snape was certainly no help. His loathing towards Harry had, if it were possible, grown fiercer. Harry and Hermione’s Potions mark had dropped like a stone. Malfoy and his brutes actively sabotaged their work without comment from the Potions Master, and Snape became exceedingly clumsy when handling the vials they turned in at the end of class. To add insult to injury, the two were often kept after to clean up the mess. This meant they were consistently late to their other classes, which did not endear them to the rest of the staff.

Snape had given Harry detention for no reason at all on several occasions, and Harry was getting strange headaches whenever his Head of House was in a particularly bad mood. Again, he could prove nothing, but he had strong suspicions as to the cause. 

Besides being bruised from being shoved into so many corridor walls, Quidditch practice was now a fight for survival. The Beaters used Harry as their primary target, and he’d had to get quite good at dodging Bludgers, as Bole and Derrick were hitting them with a little too much force and intent. Flint, obviously, didn’t try to stop them. 

This was the first time he had been on the Quidditch pitch in a week without fearing that someone intended him bodily harm.

As for Hermione, she was as quiet and subdued as Harry had ever seen her. She rarely raised her hand in class anymore, and kept to herself when she was not with Harry. She seemed depressed, and told Harry that her parents had threatened to withdraw her from the school after getting a letter from McGonagall. She’d fended them off, for now, but felt the only way to make up for her transgression was to earn top marks on all of her exams. That meant she and Harry were making a case to have a pair of beds installed in the back of the Library.

Besides, no one bothered them there.

So far, mercifully, no one had bothered them out here, either. Hermione was slowly starting to get the hang of controlling her broomstick. It was a struggle, in large part because Hermione so rarely found subjects that did not come easily. Flying was apparently one of them, and Harry’s occasional dips and dives, just to pass the time, were earning him resentful looks from his best friend. He wasn’t _trying_ to show off, he was just _bored_! 

“Okay, so you’ve levelled out, good. Move forward…slowly. Keep your body as still as possible, maintain your centre of gravity on the broom. You’ve got a Cushioning Charm for a reason – settle in, and wait for it to adapt to you.”

“I think the Cushioning Charm on this one is broken,” Hermione grimaced. “My bottom’s getting sore just sitting here.”

“Do you want me to find a nicer broom for your poor bottom, Miss Granger?” Harry asked, grinning.

That drew the desired scowl. “I’m perfectly fine, Mister Potter,” she shot back. But he saw the hint of a smile play on the corner of her mouth. Then she slipped, and the broom jerked, pointing upwards and to the left side.

“Steady! _Steady!_ Stop moving! The more you move, the worse it gets.”

There was rising panic in her voice. “Harry, I feel like I’m going to fall.”

“You’re going to be fine,” he told her. “It’s an old broom, but there are safety precautions even on ancient broomsticks…that’s right…keep it straight and level…a little bit of left…There you go!”

Hermione was red-faced at this point. That only got worse when a cheerful voice called out. “Well, fancy seeing you out here, Mister Potter, Miss Granger.” 

Professor Aurora Sinistra had walked onto the pitch, her formal teaching robes exchanged for something more comfortable and versatile, a broomstick in her hand. They looked like vintage Quidditch robes, actually. Her dark hair was pinned up, but somehow she looked as young as Harry had ever seen her.

While he was not surprised to see the Astronomy professor there, as she had been instrumental in getting him on the Slytherin House team in the first place, Hermione nearly fell off her broom…again.

“Professor,” she yelped.

“Don’t worry yourself, Miss Granger, I’m…well, as off-duty as is allowed someone of my position.” She smiled pleasantly at Harry. “Are you training this one to be Gryffindor’s new Seeker?”

Harry tried not to laugh too noticeably at the images that popped into his head, especially as Hermione was now soaring low and slow over the pitch, and just about seemed to be getting the hang of it. “No, Professor, Hermione had some difficult with flying lessons, and I thought I’d see if I could share my experience.”

Professor Sinistra nodded. She looked up and shouted. “You shouldn’t fret too much, Miss Granger! Flying comes naturally to some, and is a bit of a challenge for others, especially those of Muggle birth! Still, I would agree with Mr. Potter that it is well worth the effort!”

Hermione smiled weakly.

Sinistra mounted her own broom, a worn and well-loved Comet of an older model Harry didn’t recognize. She moved gracefully through the air, perfectly balanced, her movements controlled and intentional. “Mister Potter, I’m sorry not to have told you this sooner, but I have greatly enjoyed watching you play for the House team. You are a true natural, like your father, so I understand.” She grinned slyly. “Though I suspect it would pain him somewhat to see his son leading Slytherin to victory.”

She had struck a nerve, whether she knew it or not. Harry suspected not; Professor Sinistra had been one of his only allies in his early days at Hogwarts, before _someone_ – almost certainly Snape - had forced her to keep her distance. “It probably would bother him a bit, yeah,” he said flatly.

Drifting back towards them, Hermione gave him a look of concern. Even from a distance, she could tell when he was keeping something back.

Sinistra nodded pleasantly, in a way that could indicate anything from the fact that she understood she had trod on a sensitive topic and was trying to delicately avoid it, to the fact that she had completely missed Harry’s inner turmoil. It was always so hard to tell with Slytherins.

“We haven't spoken much recently, Professor,” Harry found himself saying.

A dark looked crossed his Astronomy professor’s face for just an instant. “Yes. I am sorry about that, Mr. Potter. Certain… _complications_ arose that I have been struggling to keep under control. Rest assured that I have been keeping a close eye on you throughout, as well as on your friend Miss Granger.”

“Thank you,” Harry said, meaning it. 

There was an uneasy silence between them, broken abruptly when a bolt of yellow light scored his right shoulder and missed his head by maybe five centimetres. He dove instinctively, and another curse flew past him into the sky. He heard a shriek of alarm from Hermione and looked back over his shoulder to see her broom was on fire and tumbling toward the ground. Drawing his wand in a hurry, he focused hard on the lesson with Flitwick that fateful day when Harry and Hermione’s paths had not merely crossed, but converged. “ _Windgardium Leviosa!”_

Less that a metre from the ground, Hermione’s decent slowed, though the strain of fighting the gravity acting on a falling witch and a damaged broomstick quickly began to tell. He finally let go, and she fell fell to the pitch, though her landing was a lot gentler than it might have been. Harry was at her side in an instant as she sprawled on the grass on her back, using her elbows to prop herself up.

Aurora Sinistra sounded nothing less than _enraged_ when she spat, “ _Revelio Hominum! Accio!_ ”

With a chorus of grunting and the tearing of fabric, a lanky boy in Slytherin robes was ripped out of the base of one of the stands and quickly found himself on his back with Professor Sinistra staring down at him, looking absolutely murderous. Harry recognized the boy a moment later.

“Higgs,” she hissed. “Terrence, is it? Your brother was a stuck-up prat if I ever knew one, but as least _he_ made it through his entire Hogwarts career. Are you _listening to me_ , boy?”

Higgs appeared to have hit a wooden support on his way through the side of the stands, as he was bleeding from the temple. As Hermione shivered in his arms, Harry was struggling to find a hint of sympathy. “Thought you could take my place on the team, did you?” he spat.

“ _My_ place, Potter. Professor, it was…”

“Don’t _start_ with me,” Sinistra snapped back, her dark eyes cold and pitiless. “I promise you now, Higgs, I will do _everything_ in my power to ensure that you are _expelled_ for this.”

Higgs said nothing, but spat defiantly on the ground. Sinistra coolly ignored him. “And I will _not_ take points, because I believe that would only serve your purposes. _You_ will pay for this…this _outrage_ , and _you alone_.” There was something terrifying in their Astronomy Professor’s voice just then, an icy rage that Harry could have never known was there.

It only fed his own. “Do you even _care_ that you could have killed someone trying to get back at me? Does that matter to you _at all_ , or is it okay because she’s Gryffindor, and _Muggleborn_ too?” he demanded.

Higgs didn’t back down. “It won’t be the last time your Mudblood is in danger. You should take better care of your little slag, Potter.”

Hermione gave a choked cry.

“That’s _enough!_ ” Sinistra snapped, and it did look like she was going to hex her own student at that moment. “ _Up,_ Higgs. _Now._ ”

The surly deposed Seeker rose and with another vicious glare at Harry, allowed himself to be escorted away by Professor Sinistra. Harry bit back some harsh parting words. 

He felt a hand on his shoulder. Hermione had gotten up. There were tears in her eyes, but he saw the fiery strength behind them. “Harry,” she said. “It’s done.”

“I know. I just…I won’t let them hurt you,” he promised.

She just nodded wordlessly, and a tear tracked down her cheek. Harry leaned back into her, trying to get his breathing under control. His heart was racing, and his soul cried out for retaliation. _Safe_ , he told himself. _We’re safe now._

Harry wished he believed it.

 

 

 

Harry and Hermione were reviewing their Transfiguration notes in the Library when they had an unexpected visitor. 

The rustle of footsteps intruding into their sanctuary immediately put him on edge, and his gaze snapped up, prepared to draw his wand and fight it out in the Library if he had to. He was taking no chances after what Higgs had done. 

Rather than a vengeful Slytherin, it was Ron Weasley, standing nervously between two bookshelves. "Hey, Hermione...Pot-Harry."

"Ronald," Hermione said coldly. 

The other Gryffindor was fidgeting badly, but just managed to meet Harry's eyes. "I wanted...I wanted to say I'm sorry for calling you a coward like I did. You were there when things went...wrong, and Neville says you got him out of there...though he didn't tell me how. That wasn't...you weren't a coward. You came through, and I shouldn't have doubted you."

Harry was silent for a long moment, and Weasley began to squirm. "I accept your apology," he said at last. "I know that it seemed...selfish, to not go out on that night, but I was afraid of...well, exactly what happened, in the end."

"Yeah," Ron said, sounding subdued. "I heard about what happened on the pitch the other day. You okay, Hermione?"

The girl fixed him with a searching look. To his credit, he didn't flinch. "I'm fine, Ronald. Thank you for asking."

"Have you heard from Charlie yet?" Harry asked, desperate to get away from a situation where he was accepting a heartfelt apology from Weasley, of all people.

Ron nodded. "Yeah, Norbert made it safely, and just in time, by the sound of it. Dragons, um, they hit...well, they grow up fast...and um..."

"They hit puberty?" Hermione guessed.

He nodded, relieved that she had said it first. "Yeah. So my brother says that much longer and we could have had a real problem. As is, they can take care of her the way they need to."

"Her?" Hermione asked. Harry had caught that as well. 

Ron chuckled. "Yeah, apparently Norbert is actually Norberta, at least that's what Charlie says."

"He would know," Harry conceded. Somehow 'Norberta' seemed a more fitting name anyway.  

"Yeah." The awkwardness in the room was almost palpable. "I um...I should probably be going. Homework, and all. Bye."

He turned to go, but Hermione's voice rang out. "Ronald?"

The youngest Weasley boy stopped in his tracks and looked back hesitantly. "Yeah?"

"Thank you for coming by. That was...very mature of you." 

Ron looked torn between protest and accepting the backhanded compliment for what it was. "Yeah, well, I have my moments." With a nod, he left them alone.

When they were sure he was gone, Hermione spoke first. "That was unexpected."

Harry nodded, not really sure what else to say. 

She looked thoughtful. "I know you don't like him, Harry, but I don't think he's a bad person."

"He's an idiot," Harry replied, almost reflexively. "But yeah, I think you're right. And it would be easier to have fewer enemies here, wouldn't it?"

"Definitely," she agreed. 

They resumed studying silently for a few minutes before Harry asked a question that had been sitting in the back of his mind for most of a week. "Have you heard back from your parents, yet? You know, about what they said about withdrawing you?"

There was a knot in his stomach at the very thought. The only reason that he was able to cope with being a complete pariah to all of Slytherin was the knowledge he was not facing it alone. 

"I did," Hermione said. "They...they want to talk about it with me, but agreed not to make any decisions until we saw each other next."

"I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to leave," Harry said, looking down at the grafitti carved into the old library table.

" _Harry_."

He looked up. 

"How can you say that?" she demanded, looking angry. "Of course I want to stay. You're here, but more than that...there's this entire world I never knew existed, a part of me I never understood...never even knew about until less than a year ago! There's no way I can turn my back on that."

Harry blinked away tears he had not even realized were there. "I um...I'm really glad to hear that. I don't know that I could do this without you. At least...I really don't want to. Ever again."

She smiled gently at him, and took his hand in hers. "I have no intention of ever letting that happen."

He hoped desperately that she would be able to keep that promise until the end of their days.

 

 

 

“Potter!”

Leaving History of Magic, Harry stopped as soon as he recognized the voice. A more sensible part of him said that he ought to ignore it and continue on to his meeting-place with Hermione in the second floor corridor. Instead, he started to turn in the direction of the speaker...

“ _EXPELLIARMUS!”_

...and Harry’s arm was whipped around his body as his wand tore free of its leather holster, flying directly into the outstretched hand of a sneering Draco Malfoy.

Harry quickly glanced around, but Draco had not been so foolish as to ambush him anywhere that a teacher might happen by. It was just him and Harry.

And Crabbe and Goyle, who were noisily ‘sneaking’ up behind him. It would have been far too much to expect his rival to play _fair_. “You’ve been in need of a good beating for a while now, I think,” the blonde said, his eyes cold with rage. “I’ll have you know I remember you hexed me outside the oaf’s hovel. You could be expelled for that. My father has connections, Potter.”

“I’m aware of that, Malfoy,” Harry said evenly. Crabbe and Goyle were getting closer, but he could not bring himself to look at them directly. It wasn’t about them, after all.

“Well, I think it’s only fair that _you_  face some consequences for that,” Draco replied haughtily. “You may be the bloody Boy-Who-Lived, Potter, but it’s long past time you understood just who is in charge here.”

Harry refused to back down. “A whinging pointy-faced first year who thinks his last name can get him anything he wants? Real inspiring, Malfoy.” 

A touch of red appeared on the other boy’s pale cheeks. _That_ had stung. “ _Get him_ ,” he hissed.

He turned around but in an instant, Crabbe was yanking his arms behind his back, and Goyle delivered a blow to his face that had him seeing stars. He followed that with a kick to Harry’s stomach, and he doubled over as Draco laughed. Harry struggled to find some way out. It might be that he would just have to take it – without his wand, he stood little chance against Draco's thuggish bodyguards. That was small consolation as his head was snapped back and he tasted blood.

“ _Leave. Him. Alone_.”

At first, Harry did not recognize the voice, as he had never heard its owner so completely and utterly _incensed_ before. Bushy-haired, buck-toothed Hermione Granger was truly _terrifying_ at that moment, which made his dazed grin all the more satisfying.

Draco dropped Harry’s wand and backed away slowly. “You don’t want to do this, Granger,” he sneered, but his voice was a bit higher pitched than usual. “A Mudblood like you? My father will have you run out of our world in a heartbeat!”

Something flashed in Hermione’s brown eyes. An instant later, blue flames were leaping from the hem of Draco’s robes, and he was screaming shrilly in a most undignified fashion, desperately trying to put it out. Hermione, for her part, looked rather alarmed, as if she had not entirely meant for it to happen.

Crabbe and Goyle had let go of Harry in the confusion, and he dove to retrieve his wand, which had rolled across the floor. Draco finally succeeded in dousing the flames, soaking his robes in the process. Harry snatched his wand from the ground and trained it on Malfoy as he got to his feet. Hermione covered Crabbe and Goyle, who were gormlessly staring at their master.

“You… _you_ … _filth!_ ” Draco raged at her. He turned to Harry. “I heard about what happened on the Quidditch pitch, you know. It won’t be the last time.” His eyes moved back to Hermione. “Word of advice: you should dump Potter, and soon, or you’ll find out just how safe uppity Mudbloods like you are in _our_ world.”

Draco was probably about to say something else, but he did not get the chance, as from out of nowhere a red-trimmed black blur slammed into him and threw him to the ground. Harry watched, mouth agape, as _Neville Longbottom_ set about bloodying Draco’s face. He recovered from his shock quickly enough to trip both Crabbe and Goyle as they tried to help their erstwhile leader. Hermione was trying to break up the brawl, but Neville was having none of it.

“ _What’s going on here?_ Stop it now, I’m a _Prefect!_ This is _disgraceful!_ ”

Percy Weasley had joined their strange group, somehow managing to look even haughtier than Malfoy as he stared down at them from behind wire-rimmed glasses. Neville froze, affording Draco the opportunity to shove him to the floor and roll away. The Malfoy heir was rather worse for the wear, with a bloody nose and swollen lip. Harry didn’t feel too much better. The room was still spinning a bit.

“You first years have been _nothing_ but trouble,” Percy continued angrily. “Away from him, Longbottom. You heard me!” 

“But Percy-” Hermione began, starting to gesture at Harry, who was wiping the blood from his lip and trying to find his balance. Goyle might be as thick as a troll, but he hit _hard_.

“I’ve heard enough from you, Granger,” the older boy replied. “I have eyes. These two were fighting, and since it looks like Neville was the aggressor, twenty points will be deducted from Gryffindor.” 

Neville looked absolutely horrified, his unexpected courage suddenly nowhere to be seen. Draco stumbled to his feet and ran off, Crabbe and Goyle quickly following him.

“And I will have to recommend a detention be assigned as well,” the boy continued, seemingly oblivious that half of the combatants in the fight had just escaped.

Neville appeared to be about to faint. Hermione went over and laid a hand on his arm, and he jumped, but at least stayed upright. Percy lectured them further and then walked off. He had not commented on Harry’s state of injury. For once Harry did not suspect that a Gryffindor had something against him; it was probably just Percy being a stuck-up prat and seeing only what he wanted to see. 

They made it to dinner in a less-than-contented mood, with Harry repeatedly assuring Hermione that he was  _fine_ and didn't need to go to Hospital Wing and her repeatedly refusing to believe him as he occasionally stumbled, and things only got worse from there. Terrence Higgs, who by all rights should have been packing his bags, swaggered into the Great Hall directly behind Harry and Hermione, bumping roughly into the Muggleborn witch such that Harry had to keep her from falling. He was about to let the boy know exactly what he thought of him, damn the consequences, when he heard shouting from behind him.

“…if you think for _one moment_ that I will let this go, Snape, you are truly a fool.”

The answering voice was astoundingly condescending. “… _Aurora_ , I would ask you to keep your voice down around the students. I have made my decision, and it is final. We _cannot_ know what happened for certain, and students have been injured by careless magic use before…”

There were more harsh words, though they were lost in the noise of the Great Hall, concluded by a huff from their Astronomy professor and a barely audible response of, “If you do not begin behaving in a manner befitting your position as an instructor at this institution, I’m afraid I may have to recommend your suspension.”

Hermione looked furious. “I can’t _believe_ that he won’t be expelled!”

“Snape’s a right bastard,” Harry hissed under his breath. It said a great deal that Hermione did not scold him for disrespect.

 

 

 

Two dreary days later, and a cowed Professor Sinistra was once again avoiding extended contact with him, and Terrence Higgs had definitely become a bit of a celebrity in Slytherin for putting Harry in his place. Things were going about as badly as could be imagined, though Harry avoided further trouble with Draco and his friends, who were a bit more wary of him after Hermione's display. Blaise Zabini told him in no uncertain terms that this ‘petty rivalry’ between him and Draco needed to stop, but his dark-skinned housemate had always seemed a bit thick when it came to social dynamics within Slytherin.

At dinner, they received notices that their detention would take place at ten o’clock, and that they were to go to Filch’s office, which was ominous enough. Having to walk there with Draco Malfoy and a hostile silence between them just made it worse. Hermione and Neville, both looking quite anxious, were waiting for them, though Hermione smiled ever so slightly when she saw Harry.

“Late, are we?” Filch said, leering disturbingly at them. “I miss the _old_ days. No detention, oh no…we’d hang them up upside down by the rafters until they passed out. That’s the way to punish students…I’ve still got the chains…all oiled and ready…they just need to say the words…”

“Shouldn’t we get going?” Harry asked.

Filch glared at him. “Quiet, Potter. But yes, we should be off. You have a real _treat_ waiting for you, you lot. Be a miracle if you all make it out in one piece. But we can afford to lose a few troublemakers like you, can’t we?”

Harry had been anticipating exhausting and disgusting manual labour, and did not like the sound of Filch’s hints at all. What exactly had they been assigned to do?

Neville was shaking so badly it looked like he was dancing.

Harry and the others obediently followed the grumbling caretaker down through the castle. But it was only when they reached the Entrance Hall that he realized where they must be going. They continued over the bridge and down to Hagrid’s hut, lit brightly against the inky black sky. Silhouetted in the doorway was the massive frame of the Hogwarts Gamekeeper, and at his feet was his drooling boarhound, Fang.

Hagrid carried a large lantern, a crossbow about as tall as Harry, his umbrella (inside of which Harry was certain were the pieces of Hagrid’s wand), and a grim expression. “Yeh got ‘em Filch? Hope yeh haven’t been scaring ‘em with those stories.” He waved. “Hey there, ‘Arry, ‘Ermione. Neville,” he added, almost as an afterthought. He eyed Draco with suspicion. 

They waved weakly back at him, and Filch scowled. “This is supposed to be a _punishment_ , Hagrid. No socializing with the _condemned_.”

Hagrid looked disgusted. “Yeh enjoy this too much, Filch. Stuff it an’ leave ‘em be. I'll take it from 'ere.”

Filch sneered and left, muttering about chains and whips.

Hagrid looked them over. “Good, all of yeh dressed warmly. So, we’re going into the Forbidden Forest…”

“The forest?” Malfoy said incredulously, “but it’s _forbidden_ , Dumbledore said so! I thought we’d be copying lines or something, this…this is _servant work_! There are… _werewolves_ in there!” he yelped.

“Don’t be a fool, Malfoy,” Hermione said in her bossiest know-it-all voice. “Werewolves are just normal witches and wizards who become beasts on the night of a full moon.”

“Hermione, it _is_ a full moon,” Neville pointed out.

“Not quite,” she replied quietly before Draco spoke.

“You _can’t_ send us in there, you…” Malfoy looked like he was biting back saying something he might regret. “My…my father will have you _sacked_ for this…for this outrage!”

Hagrid was entirely unimpressed. “If yer too much of a coward, Malfoy, then yeh go back up ter the school. And pack yer bags, ‘cause yeh don’t get ter question the instructions of staff during _yer_ detention. So, what’ll it be?”

Malfoy said nothing, but glared at Harry as if it was his fault.

“Alright all of yeh. Settle down. Yeh comin’ or not?”

Malfoy glared at him, and nodded stiffly.

“Good. So, I asked for yeh because I need some help with summat. Yeh see, there’s unicorns in the Forest – marvellous creatures, unicorns. And somethin’s been kilin’ em.”

“ _Killing_ unicorns?” Hermione gasped.

“That’s right,” Hagrid replied grimly. “Now, I’m not askin’ yeh to track down the creature that’s been doin’ this. Yeh see, there’s a hurt unicorn out there, and she’s been bleeding for a bit. We need ter find her and put the poor creature out of ‘er misery, gotit?”

They all nodded. Well, except for Draco, who was wisely biting his tongue.

“I don’t like ter do this, but I gotta cover more ground. So I’m splittin’ yeh up. Might as well do it by ‘ouse, so it’ll be yeh and Neville, ‘ermione, and then Malfoy and…”

“Hagrid…” Hermione began nervously.

“We’ll be dead by morning,” Harry said, matter of factly.

Hagrid looked a bit alarmed. “I said I don’t want any of yeh chasing whatever creature is doin’ all this. Yeh gotta stay safe.”

Harry looked right at Draco. “I didn’t say that the creature would be responsible, Hagrid.”

Realization dawned in the man's enormous dark eyes. “Ahh…right. Well then. Neville, yeh’ll go with Malfoy ‘ere, and I don’t want any funny business, yeh understand? And ‘Arry’ll go with ‘ermione.”

“I want Fang,” Draco said abruptly.

“Sure. But I warn yeh, he’s a coward!”

With no small degree of trepidation, they entered the Forbidden Forest, Hagrid leading the way with his oversized crossbow and lantern, Draco leading Fang and trying not to look frightened, and Neville not even bothering to pretend and jumping at small noises. Harry and Hermione followed close behind, just inches apart, their hands occasionally brushing. As far as the eye could see were tall trees reaching into the night sky. The ground was wet and misty and the moonlight cast eerie shadows as the canopy thickened. Harry felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. There was something _very_ dangerous about this place.

Harry had his wand in his hand, glancing nervously about for any sign of trouble. His scar twinged occasionally, adding to his growing sense of foreboding. A sudden cold wind blew through the trees, and beside him Hermione shivered in her cloak.  

They reached a part of the forest where the trees were crowded even closer together, leaving just winding narrow paths between them, and the group abruptly came to a halt. Hagrid turned around and drew two more lanterns from his enormous overcoat, lighting them with the one he carried. He handed one to Neville, and walked back to give the other to Hermione.

“We split up ‘ere. ‘Ermione, Harry, yeh take Fang and go off ter the right. Malfoy, Longbottom, yeh stay with me. Keep close. Yeh two,” he said, addressing Harry and Hermione, “send up red sparks with yer wands if yeh run inter trouble. Don’t try and fight, yeh don’t want ter get hurt. Just find the poor creature if yeh can and let me know.” 

Hermione nodded and gave Harry a meaningful look. He felt a bit insulted. As if he _tried_ to go looking for trouble…

They had been on their own for barely five minutes when they heard a distant yelp and saw red sparks shoot up above the canopy. Harry and Hermione raced toward their point of origin, and found Neville, red-faced, trying to explain his situation. After he did, Hagrid looked thunderous and began berating Draco.

“Yeh think this is funny, do yeh, scaring ‘im like that?" he demanded. "Yeh’ve got no idea what kind o’creatures walk these woods, boy. This ain’t a game, yeh got that? Now behave yerself, or it’ll be detention with Filch for a month. _Got me?”_

Draco actually looked a bit intimidated and nodded hurriedly. He still gave a small sneer when Hagrid looked away.

And with that, they separated again. Harry and Hermione began walking away from the others, Fang nervously leading them, whimpering slightly. Hermione now had her wand out as well, and they proceeded deeper into the forest. A wet chill enveloped them, and Harry shivered, his teeth rattling. He looked at Hermione, and she seemed to be trying to vanish into her cloak. To make matters worse, they soon had to admit to having no idea where they were, only that they were far from Hogwarts, and going deeper, uphill then downhill, into the night. Fang was little help in that regard.

The tall trees of the outer forest had changed into gnarled and rotten stumps along with twisted tree limbs that climbed high into the sky, moonlight peeking down only occasionally. They saw few signs of life, though every snap of a twig, distant howl, or whistling gust of wind caused the two best friends to jump in surprise and sometimes even spooked the boarhound. They reached a dark pond in a low-lying area, and Harry wondered if they had not accidentally looped back towards the Lake. 

“Hermione, we’ve got to go back,” he said, the first time either of them had spoken in fifteen minutes.

“I can use a Navigation Charm to point the way home,” she insisted, taking another step forward, extending the lantern to reveal yet another rotting tree root. A small animal hustled away through the underbrush, and his friend jumped.

“Hermione!" he hissed. "That’s not the point. We’ve been walking for over an hour. I have no idea if we’re even on the Grounds any more. It’s almost midnight. We should turn back and go find Hagrid.”

“Alright,” she huffed, though he thought he heard a bit of relief in her voice. She laid her wand flat on her palm. “ _Point me!”_ she commanded. Her wand swung to the right, then the left, and Hermione closed her eyes in concentration. Finally, it settled roughly back along the way they had come.

They started back.

Hermione was quiet again. Harry, who was not entirely at ease himself, cast a Lighting Charm, but succeeded only in illuminating a bank of mist. They walked on in the darkness, able to see at best ten meters in front of them.

Eventually they reached another downed tree. Climbing over it, they found a shallow but wide depression in the muddy ground, run through by gnarled roots. Harry helped Hermione over the trunk, and then froze.

The unicorn they had been searching for lay dead near the exposed roots of a another large, rotted tree. Even in death, its silver-white coat shined brilliantly, a beacon in the darkness.

But it was not alone.

A tall wraith-like figure leaned over it, made all of ragged cloaks and shadows. It seemed to exude malice. And then it bent down, lowered its head…and began to feast upon a wound in the unicorn’s long and proud neck.

Hermione let out a whimper, nearly silent, but somehow enough to alert the shade to their presence. Harry began backpedalling, reaching for the tree and Hermione, when his scar erupted with the worst pain he had ever felt in his life. He fell forward in shock, landing hard on his hands and knees in the mud, even as Hermione grabbed his shoulder and tried to pull him to safety.

Fang whined in terror and bolted.

The spectre raised its head, silver droplets of unicorn blood dribbling down its front. It turned to face the two students, its face hidden in darkest shadow, regarded them for a long moment. Then Hermione began to scream, but it cut her off with a wave of its shadowy hand, and his friend went limp as she fell to the ground, rolling down the incline and coming to rest at the base of the embankment, still as death.

Harry barely registered this, as once more it felt like someone had stabbed a burning knife into his forehead. His eyes watered from the pain, and a cry of agony escaped his lips. He struggled back to his feet, nearly slipping down the embankment but _just_ managing to keep his balance on the treacherous ground.

The wraith advanced on him, slithering serpent-like along the mist-shrouded ground. As it approached, the pain in his forehead grew stronger and sharper, as if something had been awakened within his skull and was now trying to tear its way out. His head pounded as tortured, inhuman screaming ripped through his mind, and he fell again to his knees.

The creature passed over Hermione’s fallen form, reaching for him, closer and closer and _closer_.

He was going to die.

And at that moment, he realized he would never see Hermione again.

_He would never see Daphne again._

But just as that thought passed through his mind, a strange sensation washed over him, and all his fear seemed to fall away. He was dimly aware of a crimson glow around him, emanating from him, reaching out further and further, enveloping him in a cocoon of magical energy. Another wave of exhaustion hit him as it grew, and he felt, dimly, his scar split open, blood trickling down his face.

But there was no pain. Rather he felt a suffusing warmth, and at once it felt as though Daphne was there, holding him in her arms, though he knew that was impossible.  _Or is it..Mum?_

The advancing wraith came into contact with the red haze around him and emitted an agonized shriek, flailing backwards for a moment before it charged again. This time it rebounded against a hardened scarlet shield, and with a final outraged scream, it fled into the darkness.

The image of his mother and father, ripped from the Mirror of Erised, passed into his mind’s eye. He saw his mother, smiling proudly, tears in her eyes, emerald green just like his own, her bright auburn hair a fierce halo around her gentle features. Then she was slipping away from him, and so was the world, and, tired beyond measure, he succumbed, and the world was silent at last, his body sliding down the hill to come to a rest a few feet from his best friend.

 

 

 

Hermione Granger awoke slowly and let out a groan of confusion and discomfort. She had dreamed she was in her lush four-poster bed in Gryffindor Tower, but as she opened her eyes she felt chilled to her very bones. and the surface beneath her was hard and wet and unyielding. A gust of wind and a distant cry brought her back to the moment.

She quickly reviewed the situation in her mind.

She was in the Forbidden Forest, for a Detention, because she had been Caught by Professor McGonagall and Punished. It had involved a Dragon. And a Broken Ankle. And it was not just Her, there was also… 

_Harry._

Her mind was spinning, and she felt like she was going to be sick. She pushed herself to her feet, fighting an unnatural fatigue, and began stumbling up the hill on hands and knees. But even as she did so, she spotted a mop of unruly black hair to her left.

Sliding back down the hill, she scrabbled to her friend’s side. Gingerly, as if he might break, she turned him over, and bit hard on her lip with a whimper when she saw that his face was streaked with dried blood. Beneath his skin was almost white, and eerily cold to the touch, but she could see his chest moving, up and down, ever so slightly, and with a rush of unfathomable relief she knew that he had not left her alone in the Forest.

Trembling from fear and the cold, she fumbled around with her soiled and sodden robes, trying to clean his face and see where he was hurt. Her mother always kept a First Aid kit handy around the house, and Hermione had sustained her share of bumps and scrapes as a child. She knew, at least in principle, what to do. Find the hurt, clean it, stick a plaster or a bandage on it, let it mend on its own. She moved his fringe aside to find his distinctive lightning scar scabbed over, his forehead inflamed. But no other wounds were apparent.

Taking stock of the situation, she retrieved her wand and fired red sparks into the air, though even that simple spell seemed to utterly drain her, and she was hit with a new wave of exhaustion. She knew they were deep in the forest, and she might attract the wrong kind of attention, but she was worried for Harry. Stumbling to her feet, she tried to pull her friend upright. Her arms shook from the effort, and she slipped in the mud and fell, panting from the effort. She blinked away the tears that obscured her vision. Her gut told her Harry needed help, and fast. For a moment she contemplated the prospect of him dying in her arms, and choked back a sob at the thought.

She settled down next to him, willing this stupid, brilliant, and yes, _brave_ boy to let her see those remarkable green eyes. Obsessively, she checked his breathing and his temperature, and thought both might be improving. _Or I could be fooling myself_ , she thought glumly.

Time passed as she lay beside him, one hand clutching his, fighting for every last ounce of courage and composure she possessed, and some she didn’t – Harry _needed_ her. It became a whispered mantra as she fought to stay awake.

It might have been minutes, or an hour, or a fortnight, when she heard a wonderfully familiar voice.

“Is that…Hagrid _...Hagrid!_ I think I found them! Over here!” 

Hermione started in alarm, but despite the dire nature of their predicament, a small smile came to her lips. Without waiting for the Gamekeeper, Neville mostly fell down the muddy embankment as he rushed towards his friends, managing to regain his balance by the time he reached her. She looked to Harry, saw that his colour had improved slightly, and his breathing was less ragged.

She had a fright as the bulky silhouette of something enormous crested the ridge, until the vision resolved itself into the deeply concerned forms of Hagrid, an open-mouthed Draco and a whimpering Fang in tow. And beyond him…

Striding past the Gamekeeper was one of the most beautiful creatures she had ever seen. She recognized him for what he was at once, of course; who could mistake the sleek and powerful palomino equine body topped by a toned torso of a man with a white-blonde mane for anything other than a centaur? She vaguely noted that he was carrying a bow with a notched arrow, but she lost herself in his sapphire-blue eyes, hypnotized, to the point where she didn’t realize that Hagrid was picking her up with one enormous hand until she was already off the ground.

“…and this ‘ere’s Firenze,” Hagrid was saying, his deep voice sending vibrations through her. “’e’s a friend, and yeh owe him, since ‘e showed us where to find yeh.”

“Good eve, child,” the centaur said, in a voice that seemed ancient and forever. “I had meant to intervene, but I felt the magic awaken, and felt I would be of greater help if I found your companions and brought them to you.” He paused and looked to the skies, which were just visible through the dark canopy above them. “Mars is bright tonight. Blood has been spilled, the blood of the innocent first, as it is always has been and always will.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, trying to make sense of his last statement. She thought of the blood she’d cleaned from Harry’s face, then of the unicorn, said in legends Muggle and magical alike to be a creature of purest innocence and virtue. The centaur regarded her for a moment, but said nothing.

With a grumble about “Centaurs and their stars,” Hagrid, satisfied she was conscious, let her down gently. She wobbled on her feet, and Neville was instantly at her side. She smiled at him gratefully, and the boy flushed, but kept his grip on her shoulder. He was a good friend to her, when his courage let him.

At some point, Hagrid had gathered up Harry gently in his arms like a sleeping babe. There were tears in his dark eyes, and his voice was rough. “Afraid I’d lost yeh,” he whispered, casting a sorrowful glance at Hermione.

“You were foolish to send these foals into danger as you did, Hagrid,” Firenze said reproachfully. “The dark night hides many terrors, especially for the one you carry. His destiny is writ large in the stars, but so is that of the Dark Adversary. His safety should be paramount.” The centaur shivered as it took in a deep breath, and looked down at Hermione with his stunning eyes. “She is weak as well. Let her ride upon me, this companion of the Potter child.”

Hagrid looked rather sceptical, a massive eyebrow disappearing into his shaggy hair, but Hermione soon found herself hoisted onto Firenze’s back. She settled as comfortably as she could, abruptly reminded of her struggles with a broom. She had a cousin who rode horses, she recalled, but it was not something she herself had ever aspired to. She tried to wrap her arms around the centaur’s bulky middle. He doubtless would not appreciate it if she clung to his mane.

It was only by chance she caught sight of Draco, who looked as though he’d seen a ghost. And he was staring at Harry. She tried to make sense of it, but even that seemed to be beyond the capacities of her muddled brain at the moment. She felt like she hadn’t slept in days.

“So whatever yeh ran into killed this here poor creature, I reckon,” Hagrid said gruffly, breaking her reverie, “I’ll be back t’morrow, ter bury ‘er.” 

“There is no need,” Firenze said, but his tone was reassuring, rather than dismissive. “The Forest takes care of her own. Lead the way, Hagrid, friend of the Forest.”

They had not gone ten steps when another centaur burst from the trees, this one darker in colour, his mane a shock of midnight black and his face a rictus of rage. Behind him came yet another centaur, a cowed creature with a chestnut body and a fiery red beard that belied his apparent temperament. 

The larger of them spoke in a rage. “ _Firenze_! What are you doing, with that human upon your back? Have you no shame? Are you a common mule, to be ridden and beaten by the sons and daughters of Man?”

“She is the companion of the Potter child, Bane,” said the palomino beneath her, his voice utterly serene. “The child that brought the world out of Darkness is in Hagrid’s arms, and the life will fade from him unless he is healed soon,” Firenze said. He snorted a challenge, a hoof pawing at the dirt. “ _I_ will aid men against the Darkness, will you?”

“What secrets have you been revealing to these…lesser creatures?!”

“Lesser creat- OW!” hissed Malfoy, as Neville promptly stomped hard on his foot. Bane hissed and looked menacingly in the blonde’s direction, and Draco shrank away in fear.

The other centaur had heard enough. “You know less than nothing, proud son of the Darkness. Your kind does not see the future when it lies in plain sight, because it has been so long that you no longer wish to see it. You wage war on one another for the pettiest of disputes. Humanity is forever cursed with arrogance and stupidity. And yet you call us savages?”

Draco wisely did not respond.

“Bane, the child. We must depart,” Firenze said, more insistent.

“Firenze was surely only doing what he thought best,” the chestnut ventured, before he fell silent at Bane’s gaze.

“ _What he thought best_ ,” the dark centaur repeated scornfully. “Firenze, you are young in years. I merely pray you see your folly before you reach my age. Or do you wish to become one of _them_?”

“I _am_ of Our People,” Firenze replied fiercely, and Hermione could feel his muscles tense and relax. “And it is ill to argue amongst ourselves. The Potter boy is weak, and I will go now, whether by your leave or no.”

“I shall not forget this, Firenze. We will have words in the future.” He turned and trotted off, followed by the slouched form of the chestnut.

With Hagrid and Firenze leading the way, they were out of the forest much faster than they had gone into it. To Hermione’s surprise, as she fought to keep her eyes open, they were met at Hagrid's hut by a frantic Professor McGonagall, and behind her Professor Snape, a look of grave concern on his face.

“What has happened to Potter, Gamekeeper?” Professor Snape demanded impatiently. “Tell us at once!”

Hagrid explained, sheepishly, about the unicorn and his suspicions that whatever had attacked – and _killed_ it, was also responsible for Harry’s state of unconsciousness. 

McGonagall, if it was possible, paled further. “Dead unicorn? Something had been _killing_ the unicorns? And you sent _students_ after it? Hagrid, are you mad?!”

“I think that’s obvious,” Snape replied softly. But he was looking at Harry now, and the concern in his eyes looked genuine.

 _Another thing to ponder…when I can._ She was helped off of Firenze’s back by Hagrid, while the older witch delivered words of heartfelt gratitude to the centaur for his aid.

On wobbly legs, she also turned back to her rescuer, a glorious vision in the moonlight. “Thank you, Firenze. I suppose…I know that could not have been easy…what you did for me.” Even just speaking left her breathless.

“Sacrifices must be made, but Bane does not yet understand,” Firenze said. “Mars is high in the heavens, yet he sees no reason for concern. A shadow is stalking the innocent, and he lets it be.” He shook his wild mane. “I have said too much, mayhaps. Farewell, Hermione Granger. _Your_ name is known to us as well.”

Hermione could only begin to wonder at the implications of that when Firenze turned and galloped back towards the Forest, vanishing into the dark.

She blinked as Professor McGonagall took her hand, and her Head of House had to give a gentle tug before she fell into step as they began their ascent to the castle.

 

 

 

Severus followed without comment as they made their way briskly to the Hospital Wing, stopping only to dismiss Draco Malfoy and tell him to return to his dormitory. The boy, his godson by some quirk of fate and a long ago gone-to-rot relationship with Lucius, obeyed without question. He almost stank of fear. Malfoy’s son had never quite had the same constitution of his father, and was more than a little soft and coddled, afflicted with the arrogance that comes of a privileged life in which everything, including respect, is handed to you. The boy had many hard years ahead unless he rid himself of those foolish notions. Perhaps his rivalry with Potter, which had escalated to the point of violence ( _stupid boy,_ he cursed), might set him on the right track. Severus had his doubts.

The Gamekeeper, after being repeatedly reassured by Minerva that they would do all they could for Potter, finally acquiesced to taking the Longbottom boy, the bane of his existence in Potions, to his own dormitory. Severus wordlessly accompanied Minerva to the Infirmary with the other two students. Granger was barely staying on her feet. Potter was still out cold, and was laid out on a floating stretcher, his skin was pale and pallid. His body temperature was alarmingly low, though he was still breathing, the only thing that really separated him from a corpse as this juncture. He toyed with the notion of exploring Granger’s mind to learn what had befallen them, but thought better of it. _Albus_ _will surely do it himself, and no accusations of ‘mind-rape’ will be levelled at_ him.

Minerva awoke the Hogwarts Matron, who immediately got the two into hospital beds, despite Granger’s feeble protests. The Matron managed to subdue her, and set about checking their condition. She immediately diagnosed Hermione with severe physical exhaustion (which was obvious) and a depleted magical core (which wasn’t). A check of her wand by Minerva showed she hadn’t used anything more strenuous than a Lighting Charm, complicating the mystery.

Potter was more of an enigma. He had, to all appearances, been drained of life as well as magic, yet stubbornly his body refused to let go. Severus stared down at the boy, the very image of his insufferable father, and in this state it was easier to tell himself he was just _James Potter’s son_ , for his eyes were closed. But when they opened, he would see again the emerald-green eyes of Lily Evans that had so bewitched him as a boy and haunted him to this day. He had wanted Lily. He had wanted her alive. Instead all that remained to him was to be reminded that she had chosen _Potter_ , as arrogant and crude and stupid as he was. And then the pain of his guilt would eat at him again unbidden, and he would mask it with rage, and allow himself to _hate_ the boy, _hate_ everything he stood for, as though he were James Potter come back from the dead to torment him all over again.

Granger finally succumbed to a Sleeping Draught, and it was then that the Headmaster himself appeared, still in a dressing gown of dark purple, the magnificent form of his phoenix, who crooned softly, perched upon his shoulder. It had been Albus who had first alerted him, by Floo, that he should meet Minerva at the edge of the Forest for a "matter of most grave importance." The man, as so often was the case, had told him nothing more. Such as how _he_ knew in the first place.

Severus watched in astonishment as the phoenix flew over to Potter, landing on the pillow beside his head. With a delicate talon, it gently brushed the hair away from Potter’s forehead, revealing a blood-crusted scar. The creature of myth and legend bent towards the boy’s forehead and a pair of pearly, thick tears dripped onto the wound, which hissed and smoked. Potter stirred in his sleep, but remained unconscious. When Madam Pomfrey cleared away the blood, all that remained was Potter’s faint scar in the shape of a lightning bolt. 

“So he will live after all,” Severus said at last, feeling the eyes of the Headmaster fall heavily upon him. And with it, the judgment, the moralizing, the reminders of the crimes for which he could never gain absolution.

This old man, to whom he owed his sorry life, met his gaze then, and he was frankly baffled by the bemusement he saw there. “You needn’t sound so disappointed, Severus. I can tell you care for the boy, and not just as your House Team's Seeker. He is his mother’s son as much as his father’s.” 

“He looks just like Potter,” Snape said, spitting the last word. _Except those eyes._ On Lily, they were bewitching. On her son... _Her last curse, and the one that cuts deepest._

“A child, Severus, is what he is. _Not_ your schoolboy rival. It is wrong of you to treat him so harshly.” 

“ _That_ ,” McGonagall said from behind him, “is an _understatement_. By all accounts you are horrid to the boy, and he of _your own House_.”

“It is no concern of yours, _Minerva_ ,” he replied harshly. McGonagall was tedious company at the best of times.  

She was also not easily cowed. “Oh but it _is_ , Severus.” Snape turned back to her, daring her to go further, and she did. “I will _not_ abide you treating the boy in such a manner. I knew James Potter, and he is not his father. He plays Quidditch, that’s _all_. The boy has the intellectual gifts of his mother and the temperament of his guardian, and yet you seem intent that he pays for James Potter’s sins. They were long ago, Severus. And James Potter is _dead.”_

Severus could have sworn her voice nearly broke as she spoke those last words, but when he turned to face her, her features were stone.

“You cannot _begin_ to understand,” he said, turning away in disgust.

“Enough of this,” Albus said sharply, and two sets of eyes swung to look at him. His voice was weary. “This is a discussion for another time. Severus, Minerva, you know that you are among my most trusted friends. You both know of the Prophecy, if not what it contains.”

 _Oh yes_ , he knew of the Prophecy. It was the most valuable thing he had ever delivered into the hands of the Dark Lord. It was the parchment upon which he had signed the death warrant of the woman he loved, even as he pleaded for her life. But the Dark Lord did not know mercy. And so on that one terrible night he had lost them all: the woman he loved, the man he served, and the man he had hated for so long. And he was left in Dumbledore’s service, a broken, pathetic shell of a man. _What Dressler might do to me if she knew_ , he mused. The pieces of him would have to be retrieved from across the whole of the Isles.

Not that anyone would bother, he knew. Who would mourn his loss, truly?

“But _what_ attacked them, Albus?” Minerva demanded, returning to the subject at hand. “What could do such a thing to children?”

“I cannot know for certain,” the Headmaster admitted, stroking his long beard. “But tonight’s events…I have reason to believe that Lord Voldemort is far closer to returning than I would have suspected.”

“Vol- _He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named_ is _dead_ , surely,” the Deputy Headmistress said frantically.

Severus sighed. It was not the first time the Headmaster had alluded to his lingering (and in Severus’ mind, justified) anxieties that infant Harry Potter’s victory over the Dark Lord had not been nearly so complete as most were eager to believe. And it was not the first time Minerva had rejected the notion out of hand.

“Are you really such a fool as to think that the Dark Lord would be so easily dealt with?” Snape asked bitterly. “Surely you know that that which was never really _alive_ cannot truly _die_.” He locked eyes with Dumbledore. “You saw it, in the girl’s mind, yes? Was it drinking unicorn blood?”

McGonagall gasped, but Severus took no notice of her horror. He knew more about the subject that he cared to admit. It had been the product of idle curiosity, morbid fascination with life and death, and rumours. Rumours that the Dark Lord sought nothing more than immunity from the Reaper. Mad he might have been, but his dreams were all too real, Severus knew. There were ways; there always were. Ways of bringing back the dead, of turning death into…well, not _life_ , but a half-life. A cursed, agonizing, hellish mockery of life, but one not easily extinguished. The Dark Lord had gladly paid the price of renouncing his humanity long ago. There was no question he would be willing to pay it again to return to power.

And _Quirrell_ had something to do with this, of that he was certain. Albus might refuse to investigate his suspicions out of fear, but Severus stood to lose more if he did not know the truth. It was time to press harder.

After a brief hesitation, he met Dumbledore’s eyes, just long enough so that the old wizard would know _exactly_ what he thought of his caution towards their stuttering colleague.

Dumbledore said nothing, and Severus hated him for it. With one last disgusted look at the boy who by some cruel twist of fate had ended up in his own House, he swept out of the Hospital Wing.

 

 

 

_She was in the forest, and Harry wandered ahead of her. She shouted for him to wait, but he could not hear her…or was it that she could not speak? He grew ever distant, and she tried to run but her shoes stuck in the mud. He turned back to her then, his eyes blank and dead._

_Then the darkness came, and it consumed him and rushed towards her. She struggled, fell, and screamed as it washed over her._

 

Gasping, Hermione opened her eyes, and regretted it instantly. She heard a commotion, though from where she was unsure and when she ventured to open her eyes again, Madam Pomfrey was beside her, and a warm cloth was laid across her forehead. “Are you quite alright, love?” she asked. “You gave me quite a scare.”

Hermione nodded, though she wasn’t sure if she was answering truthfully, and then she remembered and her eyes scoured her surroundings until she saw him, in the bed to her right, and she saw the rise and fall of his chest and she told herself it was all a bad dream. 

 

That was two days ago. It had taken that long for Hermione to regain enough strength that she could stand unaided, and when she asked what happened, Madam Pomfrey had merely shaken her head and told her to ask her Head of House.

Professor McGonagall visited her the day she awoke, but did not answer her questions as they pertained to whatever it was they had encountered. She did not outright refuse, but she would deftly divert the conversation to less dangerous subjects. She had caught bits of conversation between the Matron and her Head of House, and the mention of ‘magical exhaustion’ (she was _sure_ she’d read a reference to it), and the Deputy Headmistress’s initially dismissive reply.

She spared a glance to her right. Harry remained unconscious; pale with laboured breathing, though she was assured both had improved from their initial state. Neville, who had paid her a visit with a visibly subdued Ron Weasley in tow, had told her the rumours of what had befallen the two remarkable first years – a herd of centaurs, a werewolf, vampires, even a mad notion their bodies had been fished from the Lake, and Dumbledore was keeping their demise secret.

Hermione’s brown eyes clouded with the sudden onset of exhaustion, and she sank back into her pillow.

 

 

She was being watched, though she did not know it. Some time ago it had become necessary for some Headmaster to keep a closer eye on certain parts of the castle, and concealed behind a faded tapestry was a very special mirror. Wishing to intrude on the girl’s privacy not a moment longer, the current Headmaster waved a hand, and the vision before him morphed into his own reflection.

The girl, and a more promising student Albus had scarcely seen in sixty years, had been able to provide them with a partial and fragmented account of what had happened to her, though she had lost consciousness before whatever extraordinary event had occurred that left Harry Potter’s magic dangerously depleted and Miss Granger’s in not much better a state. The second detail was particularly interesting. Miss Granger testified that she had been unable to perform any magic before she was overwhelmed by the presence of the creature, yet her current condition belied this assertion. The girl had no reason to lie, and Albus had even brushed her thoughts to see if she was repressing memories, but he could find no trace of duplicity, conscious or otherwise.

Harry was an extraordinary boy, there was little doubt of that. But to unconsciously draw magical power from another witch or wizard? That was both evidence of an extremely powerful emotional connection between Harry Potter and Hermione Granger and something that was deeply unsettling in its implications. _They said Tom drew power from his followers during the war, callously leaving some at the point of death. What am I to make of it that Harry Potter does it instinctively?_

Albus sat at his desk, a dozen different magical instruments in front of him, some goblin silver, others appearing nearly liquid and reflecting the full spectrum of colours in undulating patterns, trying to puzzle out the mystery to which he still lacked a number of crucial pieces of information.

Miss Granger had described a hooded phantom, in terms that uncannily matched those that might be used to describe a Dementor of Azkaban. And like those cursed creatures, its presence had brought an unnatural cold, a feeling of unending darkness that consumed all in its path.

But Dementors didn’t consume unicorn blood, nor did they have the capacity to render an eleven-year old witch unconscious with a wave of the hand, severely depleting her magic in the process. Of course, some of it could have been taken by Harry in an incident of unconscious Thaumaturgy, but no, that still didn’t explain a number of facts. 

His forehead furrowed as he remembered the vague and terrifying reports that Tom had become capable of draining magic from other witches and wizards, with or without their consent. Thaumaturgy, the study of such magicks, was a nearly extinct field, and some believed the ability had never existed.

It was not his instruments or his books that told him that what Harry Potter had encountered that night was far more dangerous than a mere Dementor. It was a feeling within his soul, an acute fear that caused his adrenaline to surge at a moment’s notice, an apprehension that his greatest failure had once more returned to haunt him. Albus had never allowed himself to believe, as Minerva did, that Lord Voldemort had been finally vanquished the night the Potters died. The Prophecy was vague, but it spoke of one with the _power_ to vanquish the Dark Lord. It made no promises as to when and how this defeat would occur. 

He _did_ feel a small degree of satisfaction when he realized that his suspicions that Lily Potter had drawn upon Blood Magic of the most ancient and powerful kind - Blood Magic he had subtlety encouraged her to study further - at the moment of her death were indeed accurate. Her magic, her protection, now resided within her son's very veins, and if he was correct Tom could not touch Lily’s son directly, not unless circumstances changed in ways that seemed impossible. A curse from _another_ , though, could still strike the boy dead. And with the sacrifice so long in the past, he could not know how strong the protection was. Strong enough to drive off the shade in the Forest, mayhaps. But strong enough to reflect another _Avada Kedavra_? It was doubtful.

 _He_ is _the child of prophecy. There were others, but Tom determined the course of destiny that night._

And now, if he was not mistaken, Tom had nearly been able to exact his revenge, undetected by the formidable wards and defences of the castle, under his own crooked nose. That he had not detected his presence sooner was deeply troubling. The title of ‘Dark Lord’ was just that, but such wizards and witches that made good on their claim had a certain threshold of power that Tom far surpassed. It made them capable of tremendous magical feats, but also made them shine brighter than everyone around them.

He judged that his failure to perceive such a presence meant that the Dark Lord had not returned to body, that his magical core was still not intact and focused. He still existed in the spirit-form, a condition made possible only by the countless Dark rituals Tom Marvolo Riddle had performed, sacrificing shreds of his humanity at a time, in pursuit of his ultimate goal. Albus was unsure of how far Tom had been on his road to immortality, but he could not be killed like a normal man. The fact that he had survived the Killing Curse proved this. And that a mere ten years after Halloween 1981, he had returned to Hogwarts, the Bastion of Light. 

Occupying his thoughts as well were Severus’s many-times voiced suspicions of his Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, a former Ravenclaw of tremendous knowledge and promise who had travelled to Romania to continue his research on vampires…and had come back an entirely different man – a skittish, trembling shadow of what he was…or so it _seemed._

Quirinus Quirrell was, and had always been, a natural Occlumens. He could conceal his thoughts effortlessly even when he was a student caught in the Restricted Section. The man had been absent from his sight for much of what he now called in his own mind the _First_ War with Voldemort, but Severus swore that he was not among the ranks of the Dark Lord at the time of Tom’s defeat, and his explanation that he had been studying ancient magic of the Middle East held up under scrutiny. In any case, he had appeared the previous year to be the man who would finally hold down the Defence Against the Dark Arts position; confident, brilliant, liked by his students, and always wanting to know more. _He had the ambition of a Slytherin, but a mind for books. But what is left of him now?_

And then there was Severus’s insistence that the man had nearly killed Harry Potter twice. He had taken note of the powerful jinx that led to Harry’s fall in his first Quidditch game, and made a note to be present for all the rest, just in case. And also that mysterious entrance of the troll into the dungeons on the night of Halloween had coincided with the night that Severus had discovered a hooded figure attempting to break through the defences surrounding the Philosopher’s Stone. Professor Quirrell had a reputation of being very gifted with trolls, a fact that did not escape Albus.

The troll had both nearly killed Harry Potter and also cemented his relationship with Hermione Granger, a relationship the boy badly needed.

_Whatever I choose, I will surely regret it. Or I will regret not acting sooner._

But when playing with Tom Riddle, second-guessing was an inevitable consequence. Severus could very well be right, and Quirinus might be a servant of Lord Voldemort, or something even more dangerous. _Possession?_ He wondered. But he dared not investigate further, not directly, at least. Tom knew how much he relied upon his natural talent for Legillimency to gain the advantage, and might be expecting such a step. Indeed, in his earlier years, Albus would _not_ have hesitated to invade the mind of his enigmatic Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, for the good of the students and the school, he would have said. Quirrell could block any casual attempts at invading his thoughts, but hit with enough force while off-guard he would surely crack. But this was a waiting game.

Darkness was gathering, and Albus Dumbledore did not know if he was fully prepared. _I must trust in Harry_ , he told himself. _The boy will not let me down_.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...that was a "chapter", and represents the start of the endgame of this first book of my AU.
> 
> One of the challenges of using a variety of POVs, including characters like Snape and Dumbledore, is that I need to somehow figure out a way to make their inaction *make sense*, when it is blatantly obvious that something is up with Quirrell even in canon and Dumbledore would have to be an absolute moron not to know that. Hence, things like Quirrell being a natural Occlumens to neutralize Dumbledore's preferred method of investigation, and incidents in the past where confronting Voldemort directly backfired spectacularly and tragically to explain his caution. 
> 
> Snape is...not supposed to be sympathetic here, and I really hope he doesn't come off that way. He's undeniably interesting, but he's a terrible person who did nothing to earn the truncated redemption arc Rowling gave him, even if I intend to give him a bit more depth with Harry being a Slytherin. 
> 
> Dumbledore is...complicated. That's all I can really say at this point. It is entirely fair to greatly dislike him for how he is risking the lives of children in the course of his game of chess with Tom Riddle.


	13. Destiny's Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Left with no other options, Harry and Hermione throw themselves into the worst danger they have yet faced. 
> 
> CW: Somewhat graphic violence, injury to eleven-year olds, etc.

Harry woke the next day, to the relief of all. Professor Dumbledore questioned him extensively about his encounter in the Forbidden Forest, but Harry was certain that the Headmaster knew far more than he revealed in return.  He was informed that he had been stricken with a severe case of magical exhaustion, probably as an unconscious defense against whatever had attacked them, and it took him several days to fully recover. That was all very plausible, but he had a lot of questions, none of which the man seemed inclined to answer. 

And while Hermione insisted that he must have his reasons, Harry had to wonder if he would agree with them if he knew what they were. 

After some thought, he had not mentioned the incident to Daphne. She would undoubtedly come and raise hell and very possibly take him away from Hogwarts, and there was  _something_ that told him he could not allow that to happen. That whatever would come next, he had to face it, eleven years old or not. Besides, he refused to risk the possibility that Hermione might be left on her own. His guardian loved him deeply and her protective instincts toward him could not be questioned. That was, of course, the problem. 

Apparently the Headmaster agreed, as Daphne's next letter came without any mention of the episode in the Forest. 

Hermione had showed her true colours the day that she and Harry were finally released from the Hospital Wing; she was far more alarmed by the fact that they had missed another crucial few days of lessons with only two months or so left before their exams. He would never accuse his best friend of cowardice, but it was undeniable that she was trying to bury any feelings about their most recent ordeal under a frenzy of school work. She redirected nearly every conversation when Harry would bring up it.

In the end, it was easier just to go along with her.

The weeks wore on, and before he knew it, spring had arrived in earnest.

Since Higgs’ brazen attack on him and Hermione, and Snape’s subsequent intervention to prevent the older boy's expulsion, Harry had expected that he and his Muggleborn friend would be walking around with enormous targets on their backs. Surprisingly, while he still heard nasty whispers and was pushed around a bit in the halls, there had been no further incidents of that degree, though he had kept a very close eye on Higgs, especially during Quidditch practice. Bole and Derrick had apparently decided he was more use to them alive than dead, House Cup aside.

Hermione's presence in the stands continued to be soundly ignored, which was fine with her. It just meant that when he re-joined her after practice, his uniform splattered with mud, he would be confronted with a new sheaf of parchment on first year Potions or Transfiguration that she expected him to have memorized by the next evening.

Snape's shameless favouritism had allowed Slytherin to make up a great deal of the lost points, and a victory in the Quidditch Cup would give them a fighting chance for the House Cup, even through the hundred and twenty point loss he and Draco Malfoy had earned still left them in a distant third place. But as Slytherin’s Seeker, with a big game coming up, Harry was afforded some measure of security, especially after his strong performance in Slytherin's rout over Ravenclaw before the holidays. No one wanted to face an angry Marcus Flint, no matter how many points his Seeker had managed to lose.

Slytherin's last match might have seemed like a pushover, a contest against a low-scoring Hufflepuff team just before the Easter Holiday. Sprout’s House Team was a mix of veterans and younger students, including a promising fourth year named Cedric Diggory at Seeker. In short, their performance was unpredictable – they had barely beaten Gryffindor early in the year, but then lost badly to Ravenclaw, who were out for blood after being embarrassed by Flint's squad. Furthermore, they had lost both Beaters and their starting Keeper to injuries just that week after a fifth-year Care of Magical Creatures class had gone catastrophically wrong. It was hard to imagine that Slytherin would lose and not be in contention with Gryffindor going into the Lions' last match, especially if they got off to a big early lead again. 

The day of the match dawned cold and clear, perfect weather for Quidditch. Many of the fifth and seventh years, who had barricaded themselves in their dorms or the Library to study for their OWLs and NEWTs respectively, emerged for the second to last match of the year. Gryffindor and Ravenclaw would finish out the schedule just after the exam period.

It was a gruelling slog from the very beginning, as Hufflepuff took a 40-10 lead on the strength of four Slytherin penalties (all legitimate calls in Harry’s eyes, though he dared not tell Flint that). The Chasers traded goals, but Slytherin got little help from Bole and Derrick, who played as poorly as they had played well in the previous match. Worse, the Slytherin Chasers seemed to have coated their gloves in Slipping Solution, and incredibly, a half-hour in, the Hufflepuffs not only had the lead, but were beginning to pull away.

Bletchley was not playing her best, but in her defence she had no help from the Slytherin Beaters and was frequently up against two ‘Puff chasers at a time. The score was 170-50 as Flint ended his fifth and final timeout. He had threatened the entire team with bodily harm if they didn’t dramatically improve, neglecting to mention that he was playing as badly as any of them. He had also grabbed Harry painfully by both shoulders and told him in no uncertain terms that Diggory had better not beat him to the Snitch.

As play resumed, Harry patrolled high above the field. For once, the opposing Seeker wasn’t trailing him; Diggory was off on the other side of the field, searching on his own. Harry thought he spotted a golden glimmer near the Ravenclaw stands, but it was gone before he could blink.

Another Hufflepuff Chaser scored to make it 180-50, and the crowd noise from Slytherin's rival houses was growing unbearable. If Harry didn’t catch the Snitch soon, he’d have to wait for the Slytherins to score before he could even pursue it.

Finally, his eyes caught a glimmer of gold, and he was off, flying full speed toward the teachers' box. The Snitch veered away, heading back for the middle of the field, and the chase was on. Cedric gained on him as Harry was forced to dodge a confused Bole and heard Flint bellowing some pretty disturbing threats if he didn’t get there first.

He _nearly_ lost it all when a Hufflepuff Chaser came across his path, timing his manoeuvre well so that he was not strictly _blocking_ Harry, but was nonetheless impeding him enough to slow him down. At that point Pucey got away with what might have been a foul on Diggory, and that slowed his opposite number just long enough for Harry to dive past Cedric, reach out, and with a quick glance at the scoreboard, squeeze the elusive Snitch in his fingers, very nearly losing his balance as he clung onto the broom shaft with his knees.

It was over. Slytherin had narrowly avoided disaster, 200-190. Flint was bellowing at the entire team, berating them for their poor play, though he left Harry alone – after all, his youngest player had done everything he could. Well, almost. Flint _did_ express frustration that Harry had not bothered to try any of the decoy tactics they had practiced to clear the way for the Chasers, but Harry had never seen a suitable opportunity, and with the Slytherin Chasers flailing, it seemed wiser to set his sights on his primary goal.

Slytherin now led the tables, and Gryffindor had to win its game against Ravenclaw to pass them. But the narrow victory meant Gryffindor only needed a 110 point advantage to snatch the Cup for themselves. The Lions were still missing a Seeker with McGlaggen suffering from another concussion, but Ravenclaw would have to put up a much stronger fight than they had against Slytherin. 

As Flint and Bletchley escalated their loud row, Harry flew away from the pitch, heading for the broom shed to return his Nimbus so he might join Hermione, who had spent the game in the Ravenclaw section with Lisa and Mandy. 

Harry was emerging from the shed, wiping back his sweaty fringe, when he heard another pair of raised voices.

“…I offered to help you, but I assure you it would be folly to cross me now…”

“I-I-I would n-not t-trust y-y-you, S-s-sever-rus.”

“Do you _really_ believe you are fooling anyone, Quirrell? Perhaps your idiot students are none the wiser, but I _know_ , and I am not alone. If you do not cooperate, I may…share my suspicions…and my evidence.”

“Y-y-you have n-n-no evidence.” 

“You would be surprise…wait, there’s someone there, listening. Silence, you fool, or you’ll give us both away!”

Harry ran as fast as he could, not looking back until he was back on the pitch, where Flint and Bletchley were both red in the face, still hurling insults back and forth. He spied Hermione waiting at the base of the stands, and he hurried over to her. “Something’s happened,” he said. “We need to talk.”

 

 

 

But still Hermione evaded the discussion. He told her he had heard an argument between Snape and Quirrell, but before he could bring up the specifics of it they were interrupted by Lisa Turpin, who asked to join them for review, and Hermione accepted eagerly before he could decline. And after that, there was always another excuse for why they could not talk about what he had overheard, even after he communicated some of the disturbing specifics.

The Easter holiday arrived. A handful of students went home for the weekend, though Harry and Hermione were not among them. Her parents did send them both a selection of chocolate eggs, which made Harry feel much better about his standing with Hermione's father.

It was the night of Easter Sunday that Harry first dreamed of the Stone: a shining gem of deepest crimson, so vivid it seemed to be itself alive, surrounded by layers of rippling gold.

Thoughts that did not seem to be his, yet somehow  _were,_   passed through his mind in the night, and he awoke, sometimes shivering with a dull ache in his forehead, the slightest tingling in his scar.

It was two weeks later, alone in their corner of the Library, after a particularly vivid nightmare involving the Stone and his parents’ deaths, that he finally pushed the issue. “Hermione, we can’t keep dancing around this.”

His friend looked up from her textbook, anxiety briefly flashing across her features before she adopted a more quizzical expression. “What are you talking about, Harry?” she asked calmly.

Harry sighed. “You know _exactly_ what I am talking about,” he replied, drawing his wand from his robes. “ _Muffilato!”_

Hermione closed her book with an irritated expression. “ _Harry!”_

“We can’t risk this being overheard,” he said. “Hermione, whether you want to face it or not, we were nearly killed a month ago. We went into the forest, we found the unicorn, we found what had killed it, and we nearly died.”

“I know that, Harry,” she snapped back. “It doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“I’m not asking you to _like_ it,” Harry replied, a bit of an edge in his voice. Hermione jumped slightly. He knew he still frightened her on occasion. “But we have to be realistic, Hermione.”

His Muggleborn friend met his gaze. “Alright. Let’s talk.”

Harry began the only place he could. “You do realize that Voldemort is in the Forbidden Forest, and has probably been inside Hogwarts this year, and is being aided and abetted by a member of the staff?”

Hermione’s expression betrayed a hint of fear, but also a certain determination. “Go on.”

Harry sighed. “You really don’t believe me, do you?” 

“I don’t know… _what_ to believe, Harry,” Hermione said, a bit uncertainly. “I don't know what it was we found in the Forest, and whether it was You-Know...Voldemort or something completely different. And I _really_ don’t know what we should do about it. We have a lot of suspicions, guesses, ideas, questions, but no _proof_. Of _anything_.”

Harry refused to let up. “Okay, but let’s put it all together, shall we? Voldemort has been interested in immortality-”

“Harry, I haven’t found that anywhere.”

And neither, to be entirely honest, had Harry. But there was just this _feeling_ he had, combined with a few off-hand comments by Daphne and a brief passage in a book he couldn’t seem to remember the title of, that just made him so _sure_. There were a fair number of people, Hagrid included, who professed that they doubted Voldemort “’ad enough human left in ‘im ter die.” 

“Well, it would make sense if he survived.”

Hermione sighed. “But we don’t _know_ he survived. It's been ten years, Harry.”

Harry felt his anger rising. “Hermione, my scar _burned_. It _broke open_. The scar I got when Voldemort _tried to kill me_. It’s been bothering me for ages now. How could these _not_ be related?”

“It’s rather unlikely,” she admitted, sighing. “Alright, so, assuming - for the moment - that you're right. That, somehow, without anyone knowing, V-Voldemort is in the Forbidden Forest, and he’s trying to steal the Philosopher’s Stone in the hopes that it could help him return to power,” she said, dropping her voice to a barely-audible whisper. “What can we do about it that Professor Dumbledore and the others are not already doing?”

“Are they doing _anything?_ ”

“ _Harry!”_ she hissed indignantly.

Harry shook his head. “No, but really. Are they? Was our near-death in the Forest the first they suspected of anything? Because why in Merlin’s name would they send students out there in the first place if they thought Volde-bloody-mort was hiding in the woods?” 

Hermione was quiet. He had won that point. Emphatically. “Again, what do you suggest we do about it? Should we tell Professor McGonagall what we suspect?”

“We’re not supposed to know anything,” he said with a grimace. “I like Professor McGonagall, I do, but she’s going to be more upset that we know something about the Stone and Fluffy than inclined to believe that someone is trying to steal it.”

Hermione frowned. “You’re right, of course...I wish you weren't, but you are. What about Professor Dumbledore?”

“Dumbledore already…knows, I think,” Harry said, not entirely sure why he was so certain. “Maybe he can’t do anything. Maybe he is and we just don’t know.”

Hermione nodded, mollified. “Alright then. Are you going to tell me about these dreams you just mentioned?”

He explained what he had seen and experienced, in more detail than he had previously. His friend looked rather alarmed. She was very, very quiet as she asked, cautiously, “Harry, are you telling me _you_ want the Stone. To use it?”

“ _No!_ ” he replied, shocked. An image of his parents swum into his mind, of their smiling faces in the Mirror of Erised, of his mother’s hand squeezing his shoulder, his father ruffling the untidy mop of hair that was so like his…

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean…it’s just, you’ve lost people, and if this Stone could be used to restore life...”

“ _No._ ” He would not let himself ponder those ramifications, no matter how desperate he was. He _could not_ let himself do that. He had Daphne, and he had Hermione, and that was all he needed.

“So why are you dreaming about it?” 

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe...maybe it has something to do with my scar? It burns after these dreams. Is it…” he gulped. “Could I be feeling thoughts that... _aren’t_ mine?”

Hermione's eyes widened. “You mean…”

Harry closed his eyes and nodded. The thought was absolutely _terrifying_.

“It’s possible," Hermione said after a long moment. "I did look up curse scars after what happened to you in the Forest. I’m sorry to say, that unless the answer is in the Restricted Section, you are unique, Harry.” 

“No one had ever survived a Killing Curse,” he reminded her.

“Right," then she frowned. "Well…no, not really.”

Harry started. “What do you mean?” 

She sighed. “There was a story, just a story, about Merlin…but come on Harry, you know that wizards tell all kinds of fanciful stories about him, the kind that couldn’t be true! He probably never even existed.”

“He might have,” he said, and Hermione did not argue the point. How could she doubt _anything_ in this world she had just discovered. 

It actually made a lot of sense. Besides, if _Harry_  had done something like that, even if it was mostly his mother’s doing, surely Merlin, the founder of magical society and the most powerful magic-user to ever live, could have done the same. “Alright then. So it’s from my scar. The Killing Curse. I don’t…I don’t like where this is headed. At all.”

“You aren’t alone,” she said, and the words seemed to carry several layers of meaning in a way that only Hermione could convey. _I’m worried too. I’m here for you. We’ll get through this, together._

He wondered sometimes how such a beautiful thing as their friendship had ever come from such rotten beginnings. They still clashed – Hermione was an optimist at heart, and Harry sometimes struggled to see the good in people when they mistreated him in any way. Hermione had general faith in authority figures, while Harry was intensely sceptical of them.

But somehow, it still worked.

“I don’t know if it’s Quirrell or Snape we ought to be worried about,” he said. “But I’m watching them.”

“That’s all we really can do,” Hermione agreed.

It was not the most comforting of thoughts.

 

 

 

And so school wore on, and exams got closer, and Harry fretted, and dreamed, and thought. His situation was not improved when he caught a cold at the start of May. Bursting at the seams from Pepper-up Potion, he managed to stay focused enough to keep up with the gruelling pace set by Hermione. Still, he insisted that they do something else once in a while, and he recommended they visit Hagrid. The last time they had seen him, a week after the Forest, the man had been in tears, a combination of his crushing guilt for leaving Harry and Hermione in harm's way as he had, and his continued grief at losing Norbert...er, Norberta.  

Still sniffling a bit, Harry followed his best friend out onto the grounds. It was a pleasant spring day, the glass still glistening slightly from an early-morning shower. Hagrid was out of his hut, dumping an enormous bucket of sloshing liquid into a trough, where several pigs eagerly dug in. The big man set down the bucket, left the animals to their breakfast, and smiled as he saw them approaching.

“Arry! ‘Ermione! Yeh feelin’ better?” he asked kindly. Harry and Hermione approached the gentle giant and sat down on a pair of convenient tree stumps.

“Much better, thanks Hagrid,” Harry said cheerfully. “Everything alright with you? Are you…are you still missing her?” He wasn’t sure it was the right thing to ask, but it was usually best to be direct with Hagrid, and truth be told, Harry _did_ care about him, even if he thought him completely and dangerously _mad_. 

Hagrid sniffled. “Her? Oh, 'o course. She was a good dragon, but she’s happy now, with a bunch of t'others. I’m sure she’s enjoyin' 'er lot in Romania.” 

Harry nodded obligingly. “I’m sure.” He was then reminded of something. “Hagrid, how did you _get_ Norberta in the first place?” 

The man frowned. “I thought I told yeh that? Well, anyway, there were a fellow in the Hog’s Head, and there were a game o’cards, and yeh know, I’m always looking out fer new and interestin’ creatures, and ‘e says he’s got a dragon egg, and I think, why not, ‘ve wanted one since I were a boy, yeh know…”

“So you _won_ it?” Hermione asked.

“Well yeah,” Hagrid said, sounding a bit defensive. “It wasn’t tha’ dodgy, really.”

“Hagrid, possession of a dragon without a caretaker’s license is _illegal_!” Hermione almost shrieked the last word before Harry gestured at her to keep it down. 

Hagrid shifted nervously.

Harry spoke next. “Did you talk about anything else with him?”

“O’course! ‘s not very often yeh get ter meet someone else who knows about all kinds o’ interestin’ creatures! And he was a friendly chap, kept buyin' me drinks, wouldn't take a knut for them. He asked if I'd taken care of a dragon before, I says, 'well, no, but after a three-headed dog, it can't be tha' difficult.' And, well, I got to tellin' him about Fluffy…”

Harry’s blood ran cold. “Did he seem interested in Fluffy?”

“Well, o’course! How many three-headed dogs do yeh suspect there are, anyways?”

“Hagrid, do you know anything else about him?” Hermione asked, but Harry’s mind was racing.

“Hagrid, what did you tell him about Fluffy?” 

The Gamekeeper looked taken aback. “Well, he asked about feedin’ ‘im, obviously, how yeh go about sommat like that…‘e’s rather fond of raw dragon meat, yeh know, but ‘e’s got three stomachs, and big ones at tha', so it’s not easy…”

“Did he ask you about anything else?” Hermione pressed.

“Well, 'e asked how I took care of an animal tha' size, kept ‘im clean and all, checked on 'im. And I says that it’s real simple, yeh just play a little bit o’ music and ‘e’ll go right ter slee…shouldn’t ha’ told yeh that,” he grumbled. “Yeh two‘re asking a lot ‘o questions…” 

Harry pressed on. “Hagrid, what did he look like? Did you recognize him? Or his voice?” 

The gentle giant paused, thinking. “’s a bit hard ter remember, since I wasn’t, yeh know, all there the 'ole night, but ‘e was wearing ‘is cloak the 'ole time; didn’t really get a good look at ‘im. Not tha' unusual, mind, get all sorts in the Hog's Head...” 

A cloaked figure could be anyone, Harry reasoned. On the other hand, a cloaked figure _could be anyone_. Presumably someone with something to hide, like their identity. Was it Snape hiding under that cloak? Quirrell? It might explain why Snape had not done anything to interfere with Hagrid and the dragon, even if Malfoy had told him something was amiss, as Harry suspected had been the case.

Perhaps this was all part of his plan.

Hermione saw the wheels turning in his head. “Hagrid, I think we need to be going now. Thanks for the tea!” She was quickly gathering her things as Hagrid stared at them both in bewilderment.

“I didn’t give yeh any tea…”

“Oh, well, thanks for the conversation then,” the very distracted Muggleborn amended. “Come on Harry, we’ve got a lot of work to do.”

Harry was suddenly reminded of something that had turned up in his post recently, a late Christmas present. "Oh, and thanks for the flute! I'll work on playing it one of these days!" 

Hermione pulled on his arm again, and Harry followed without another word, leaving behind a rather puzzled Hagrid. 

They were out of Hagrid’s earshot on the covered bridge when Hermione finally exploded. “Alright, alright! You were right! You were right from the start, and I'm sorry I doubted you. The Stone _is_ here, and someone _is_ almost certainly trying to steal it, and it’s probably either Quirrell or Snape.”

Harry stared at her. “Where did this come from?”

Hermione huffed. “Well, I’ve been _trying_ to be as sceptical as I can, especially as _you_ are so keen to jump to conclusions…but honestly Harry, a dragon's egg? What are the odds that someone would have exactly what Hagrid has wanted for years and would be able to get him drunk enough that he would talk about the defences to the Stone? It can’t be an accident.”

Harry nodded. “This is trouble. The defences of the Stone have been compromised.” 

“We’ve got to tell someone!” Hermione insisted.

“Who? Is there anyone we trust that would actually listen to us?”

They had been done this road before. “So we wait?”

Harry sighed. “We wait.”

 

 

 

And so they did. Spring drew closer to summer, as Harry’s class neared the end of their eventful first year at Hogwarts. Most were concerned now only with passing their exams, or enjoying the late-spring weather down by the lake. Slytherins, Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, and Ravenclaws gathered around the lake in clumps, with some intermingling between the members of the houses. The boys loosened their ties and robes and the girls rolled up their sleeves. All around them, there were few signs of the mounting anxiety consuming two of the least popular first years in the school.

Daily, it seemed, his scar burned more fiercely. Usually he would feel it worst when he awoke, but lately he had been driven to distraction during his classes as Hermione looked on in concern, while trying to help him not fall too behind. Professor McGonagall had already called him aside to ask what was ailing him, but to Hermione’s frustration, he had not told her of the pains in his scar. 

“Harry, you’re being utterly _ridiculous_ about this! You need to tell someone!”

But he hadn’t. Not McGonagall, not Dumbledore, not even Daphne, because he knew she would worry, but not be able to do anything about it. As long as he and Hermione were the only ones who _believed_ the Stone might be in danger, what was the point of humiliating themselves by asking help from those who would dismiss their concerns as childish nonsense?

It was a sign of how desperate Hermione had become that it was _she_ who suggested resuming their explorations of the castle whenever Harry refused to study for any longer. They had found most of the objects and locations listed on the manifesto they had been mysteriously given shortly after becoming friends, including the intriguingly-named “well of souls,” which turned out to be a groan-worthy play on words, as Harry came upon a cupboard stuffed with old leather boots, and another crystalline puzzle piece.

Hermione had been working on assembling some sort of whole out of their prizes for months now, but suspected that there was a major piece missing that held the others together. Harry and Hermione probably knew the castle better than anyone else in their year, and had even set about mapping portions of it, as much as such a thing were possible. Since their encounter with the Grey Lady, they had been careful to not venture too far when darkness was approaching.

One area they had not yet explored was the dungeons. Harry knew that the Slytherin common room, Snape’s classroom, and the Potion Master’s office covered only a minute fraction of a vast network of natural and artificial caverns upon which Hogwarts had been built. There were, unsurprisingly, rumours of magnificent treasures or artefacts left by the Founders themselves, including a persistent story about a Chamber of Secrets once established by Salazar Slytherin, allegedly to hide a beast that his heir would use to rid the school of those of non-magical blood.

Harry and Hermione set their sights rather lower. Despite her initial reservations, Hermione could not hide the enthusiasm she had for learning the mysteries of the castle.

After two straight days of reviewing Transfiguration and a particularly vivid nightmare of his parents’ deaths, augmented by the disturbing visions of the torn and broken bodies of Hermione and Daphne, Harry had convinced his friend to follow him well past the concealed entrance to the Slytherin common room, past the auxiliary potions classrooms sometimes used by the older students, and, with some coaxing, down a set of stairs that led deeper and deeper into the bowels of the castle. Most of the rooms were empty, though Hermione was always anxious to search methodically and slowly, while Harry felt the urge to continue on. They found many interesting patterns of runes that neither of them recognized, and Hermione copied them as best she could onto a sheaf of parchment, along with other inscriptions, which appeared to be stylized images of some sort.

Turned back by the growling in his stomach and Hermione’s insistence that they were getting lost, the two friends began to carefully retrace their steps. Fortunately, Hogwarts below ground seemed mostly devoid of the complex and confusing magics that made the castle change and re-arrange itself according to long-forgotten schedules.

They had climbed a grime-slicked staircase and entered one of the last corridors leading back to the inhabited regions of the castle when their luck took a decided turn for the worse.

“Well, well, what do we have here?”

Harry glanced up to see the pale face of Severus Snape glowering at them, a thin smile curving his lips. “I _would_ ask you what you were doing wandering the dungeons, Potter…but I’m sure the lie would not be worth my time.” He gave and long and deliberate pause, his dark eyes locking upon Harry’s Gryffindor companion. “As for you, Granger, I rather expected better of you. I must admit my surprise that you spend so much time in the company of this…boy.”

“Harry is my friend, _Professor_ ,” the Gryffindor replied, eyes flashing.

“Indeed,” Snape said. “A friend who may have gotten you into trouble. Or _do_ you have an explanation for why you are wandering the lower dungeons, which I assure you are off-limits to students for a reason.” He smiled pitilessly. “Even I do not know what manner of dangers lurk in these shadows, and it would be  _such a pity_ if one of you were to be killed or seriously injured.” He shook his head and pursed his lips. “So, _do_ you have an answer for me, Potter? Or _are_ you like your father, believing you can strut about wherever you wish and no one has the right to stop you?”

“No, Professor. We were just exploring a bit, sir. Trying to take our minds off of our exams, sir,” Harry replied, keeping his voice as even as he could.

Snape looked almost bored. “A likely excuse, but hardly sufficient. Ten points will be deducted from each of your Houses. And you will come with me. You will leave when I release you, is that understood?” 

“Yes, Professor,” they said in unison. They followed Harry’s Head of House back through the winding corridors of the dungeons, and finally, taking a different path out, they arrived at Snape’s office.

“Get in,” he told them, and they obeyed, Hermione shivering slightly. Harry did not dare offer comfort as he struggled to keep his own face an emotionless mask.

Harry and Hermione stood close together for a full minute before Snape had settled into his desk. With a sharp intake of breath, he finally spoke, “You are two of the most impudent, nosy, and _intolerable_ pupils I have ever had the misfortune to instruct.”

He turned to Hermione, staring out at her from behind the dark curtain of his greasy hair. “ _You_ , Miss Granger, refuse to stay silent even when I have made it abundantly clear that I do not care to hear from you…and _you_ , Potter, are a nuisance, a troublemaker, and a prideful boy who thinks that the world ought to be handed to him. I _hate_ to disappoint both of you,” Snape said, in a tone of voice that said that nothing gave him greater pleasure, “but such…attitudes will not be tolerated, and will only lead to…unfortunate consequences.”

“Yes, Professor,” Hermione said, her gaze completely focused on Snape. Harry nodded in agreement.

Something about the atmosphere in the room said that there were not finished, and indeed, as they stood there before him, rigid and attentive, Snape met each of their eyes in turn. “Now, you will tell me what you know of the Philosopher’s Stone, and the protections upon it.”

Harry started. He had not been expecting _that_.

“ _Yes_ , Mr. Potter?”

Harry said nothing. 

Snape sneered. “Surely you foolish childrenhave realized that I am not without my own sources of information. I know you have been seeking to discover what the Stone is and where it is kept, and I suspect you have been somewhat successful. Tell me. _Now,_ Miss Granger, or I shall take further punitive action.”

With an anxious glance at Harry, Hermione began to tell the abbreviated story, leaving out any hint they had that someone (namely Quirrell or the man before them) was trying to steal the Stone. She made it sound like nothing more than academic curiosity. Hermione was better at lying than anyone gave her credit for. 

Snape was unimpressed by her efforts. “I _did_ warn you not to hold back the truth from me, Granger. 10 more points from Gryffindor.” Hermione bit her lip nervously as he turned to Harry. “I _would_ ask you,” he said disdainfully, “but I doubt it would be fruitful. So to save both of us time, I will merely assign you a detention to be served with me. I have a great number of cauldrons that need cleaning.”

Harry bit back something nasty.

“Yes, Potter? Would you like to say something? Perhaps remark upon how your life is not fair? You wouldn’t know anything about that, _boy._ And stop _blubbering_ , girl!” 

Hermione nearly had tears in her eyes. Snape hissed scornfully. “You two are meddling in matters well beyond the comprehension of your tiny juvenile minds. I would advise that you cease your misguided efforts at once, before there are…more serious consequences.” He sighed disgustedly. “Get out of my sight, both of you. Potter, further information about your detention will be forthcoming.”

Hermione almost ran out of the room, and Harry followed her, fighting back the urge to send one last nasty look at Snape. 

“Are you alright?” he asked, when they were well away.

Hermione sniffed. Her eyes were wide, and her face was pale, as if she had taken ill. “I don’t _know_. I just…I just started feeling very cold, and very alone, and wondering what my parents would think if they knew I was getting myself in trouble, and I tried to stop because it was not the time, but I just _couldn’t!_ It was like he was in my mind – I could barely focus on what he was saying. I think I might have agreed to _anything_ to get out of there.”

She reached out a trembling hand, and Harry took it in a firm grasp. “I really don’t like him, Harry. Truly, he’s _not_ a good person.”

Mindful that Hermione was rather shaken, and raging inside that Snape was allowed to get away with scaring her like that – Harry simply nodded. “And he _was_ rather interested in the Stone.”

“It _doesn’t_ mean that he’s trying to steal it,” Hermione protested weakly.

“I know.”

“But it’s rather suspicious.”

“You could say that.”

Hermione glared weakly at him. “Is there _any_ situation that you ever take seriously?”

“I _am_ taking this seriously,” he retorted, a bit insulted.

Hermione let out what might have been a giggle. “I know. I just wanted to give you a taste of your own medicine, as we say in the Muggle world.”

Despite everything, Harry couldn’t hold back the grin that split his face.

 

 

 

At last, Judgement Day arrived. Well, the start of their exams, at least. 

As just about anyone who was not Hermione could have guessed, the top two students in the class had very little difficulty passing either the written or the practical portions of their exams. Harry struggled a bit with a few dates of goblin rebellions and legal developments in History of Magic, and Hermione inexplicably forgot some key bits of Transfiguration theory, much to her distress, but overall they found themselves feeling quite good about their performance on the written portion.

In the practical exams, neither had much issue either. Flitwick's challenge to make a pineapple tap-dance across a desk with a combination of simple animation charms and Professor McGonagall's test of their ability to transform a mouse into a matchbox (without whiskers) were relatively straightforward - though Harry swore there was a bit of a nub at the back that he wasn't able to get rid of before their Transfiguration professor told them to put their wands down. Malfoy's 'mouse-box' was still twitching as he got up to leave.

Professor Sprout did not ask anything particularly unreasonable as they soothed and pruned a young Venomous Tentacula - it was only when they got older that they became particularly dangerous. Still, there were a few minor wounds among the less prepared Slytherin first years. When the Gryffindors finished, Hermione reported that while she had eventually succeeded, the most impressive performance had reportedly been turned in by Neville Longbottom, of all people. 

Potions was a struggle. Not because of the task set before him, a relatively straight-forward Forgetfulness potion, but because his Potions Master was quite literally breathing down his neck and offering snide commentary, which seemed deeply inappropriate in an examination context. He was also getting a bit of a headache, and suspected he knew why. That  _was_ definitely something he would be mentioning to Daphne.

The other problem was that the burning in his scar, to that point an irregular distraction, had become a dull ache that morning, unceasing and unyielding, with occasional spikes of searing pain. A visit to Madam Pomfrey to get a headache-cure after Snape finally dismissed them did little good.

The night after, the feeling of dread that had plagued Harry for months reached a crescendo. A night of dreams, vivid and confused, images and sequences flashing through his mind. The Stone, reflecting the flames of flickering torchlight. A flash of sickly green. Two glowing eyes of deep scarlet that burned in the night, scouring his very soul.

Hermione continued to urge Harry that he tell someone, _anyone_ of the pain in his curse scar, but he continued to resist. They would think him mad, he worried, or confine him in Hospital Wing where he would be no good to anyone.

No, he told her, he would do this, as he had so many other things during this year of trials and turmoil, with Hermione’s aid alone. 

His resolve lasted until that afternoon, when Harry was trying to beg off another last-minute study session with the Ravenclaws for their Astronomy test that evening while Hermione insisted that, if he _wasn’t_ going to tell an adult about his afflictions, he could not very well use them as an excuse. They had just reached the end of a corridor, Hermione continuing to hiss her arguments into his ear, when something brought Harry to a halt. He gestured for his best friend to stay silent and looked around the next corner.

In a doorway leading to a disused classroom, Professors Quirrell and Snape stood before them, wands drawn, a look of unrestrained terror on the face of Quirrell, and a loathing that Harry had only ever seen directed at himself flashing in Snape’s dark eyes.

“I warned you, Quirrell, that you did not want me as your enemy. I offered to aid you in your mission, and you scorned me. Now you pay the price.”

“Sev-v-verus, d-d-don’t be a f-f-fool…” 

At that instant, a bolt of agony ripped through Harry’s forehead, and he was unable to bite back a grunt of pain. Both of the adults spun to see them, Quirrell quickly stowing his wand in his robes.

“ _You!”_ Snape almost screamed, as Harry felt Hermione’s arms trying to pull him away. “How _dare_ you _spy_ on _me_?”

Harry felt his feet start to carry him at a run, pulled by Hermione's outstretched arm, and soon, even with his head swimming, he was sprinting down the corridors, breathing hard, until, after who knew how long, Hermione pulled him into a corner, her eyes wide with fear.

“It’s _both_ of them,” she said, shivering. “Harry, we _have_ to tell someone. We have to tell Professor Dumbledore, or Professor McGonagall. We _can’t_ go up against either one of them, let alone _both_ , without help. Surely you know that?”

Harry took a deep breath and willed his mind to clear. “Let’s find Dumbledore,” he agreed.

Harry remembered vaguely the way he had come during his first ever visit to the castle at the end of the summer. After a few wrong turns and one false door, they came to a short corridor terminated by a pair of gargoyles. Harry stepped forward, trying to remember how Daphne had gotten past them. “Frederick,” he gasped. “Frederick, we need to see Professor Dumbledore. It’s important!”

“Who’s Frederick?” Hermione asked.

“That’s what Daphne called one of them, the last time I was here,” Harry explained breathlessly. “Frederick!”

“What in Merlin’s name are you two _doing_?” came the stern Scottish brogue of Gryffindor’s Head of House. Hope flashed in Hermione’s eyes.

“Professor, we’re trying to see the Headmaster. It’s dreadfully important that we see him, as soon as possible.” 

“Miss Granger, Professor Dumbledore has been called away on urgent business, and will return on the morrow. _I_ am the Deputy Headmistress, and as such, you will direct your concerns and questions to me. Now what is it, my girl? And are you quite alright, Mr. Potter?”

Harry, who was still reeling from the pain in his scar and the run through the castle, could not get out an answer before Hermione had blurted, “It’s about the _Philosopher’s Stone!”_

Professor McGonagall went very, _very_ still. “What are you talking about? Who told you about this?” she demanded.

“Never mind that,” Harry said. “We know what it is, and that it’s hidden here. And we think that someone, someone already in the castle, is trying to steal it.”

“That’s impossible,” McGonagall replied dismissively. “The Stone is as well protected as anything in the magical world. It is defended by countless layers of magical enchantments far beyond anything that you two would understand. I tell you, there is no possible way that the security of the Stone could be compromised by an outsider…”

“And what if it _isn’t_ an outsider?” Harry said before he could think better of it.

A touch of pink appeared at the corners of the venerable woman’s cheeks, and she looked even more furious than the night she had found Harry and Hermione out of bed in the Astronomy Tower. “Well I _never_ …do you have the _slightest_ inkling of what you are suggesting, Mr. Potter?” 

“Please, Professor McGonagall,” Hermione finally chimed in. “It’s not just Harry.”

She looked upon her favourite pupil with crushing disappointment. “I must say I expected better of you than to believe such absurd notions, Miss Granger. As for you, Mr. Potter, I will tell you now, this _one time_ , that the Stone is safe and secure. I have not the slightest idea how you two came to learn as much as you have, and my curiosity is at an end. If I catch _either_ of you _anywhere near_ the out-of-bounds third floor corridor, I _will_ be forced to take severe disciplinary action. And if you think that I would not dare expel you, then I assure you that you are _gravely_ mistaken. I will not tolerate this kind of recklessness from any of my students, regardless of birth or personal history. Do I make myself absolutely clear?”

“Bu-”

"Yes, Professor,” Hermione said, squashing his final objection.

The older woman’s eyes laid heavily upon him. “I promise,” he said softly.

Professor McGonagall took in a deep breath. “Very well. If that is all, I would ask you to go onto the grounds and join your classmates in this rather lovely weather. You will speak no more of this. Now, away you go.”

Again Harry wanted to protest, and again Hermione pulled him away, leading him out down several corridors and flights of stairs, through the Entrance Hall into the spring sunshine.

“Hermione-” he finally said.

“I _know_ ,” she cut him off. “But you heard her. Oh, I can’t be expelled Harry, I _can’t!_  You don’t _understand!”_  

“ _I_ don’t understand?” Harry replied angrily. “Voldemort _killed my parents_ , Hermione. And he’s going to try to steal the Stone tonight, I know it. Dumbledore's gone, and I doubt that message was genuine. I can’t…I _won’t_ just stand by and let him take it. I’d _die_ first.”

“You _can’t_ mean that,” Hermione said, truly fearful of his words. “Oh Harry, you…I-I won’t let you.”

Harry smiled mirthlessly. “Are you really going to try to stop me?” 

Hermione stiffened visibly, resolve in her voice. “Of course not. I’ll go with you.”

There was absolutely no point in trying to dissuade her. She was a Gryffindor for a reason, he supposed.

It would be tonight, then. McGonagall would undoubtedly be checking that Hermione was in her dormitory at curfew, so she had to start there. He couldn’t be as sure, but he could not take the risk that Snape would be looking for him as well. Harry gave Hermione the Invisibility Cloak. Since he had discovered a number of passages from the dungeons to other levels of the castle, he was in a better position to move about undetected.

By contrast, Hermione would be walking down open corridors if she was to avoid the central tower and the moving staircases, where she could not hope to pass unnoticed. The portraits there, kept awake all day by the hustle and bustle of student activity, were much more likely to call out if they were disturbed after hours.

They made the exchange, wished one another luck, and said their goodbyes. Harry waited in the Slytherin common room, bathed in the pale green dying firelight, until midnight. Slipping past a group of arguing seventh years, he cast Silencing Charms on his feet, fiddled with the Notice-Me-Not charmed belt buckle given to him by Daphne at the start of the year, 'just in case,' took one last look around, and slipped out of the dormitory. Snape was not there to greet him. He set off, his heart pounding, and his curse scar burning dully. 

 

 

 

He arrived first, as was to be expected, lingering in the shadows, keeping his breathing under control, listening for any sound that might betray the presence of Filch or Mrs. Norris or an overzealous prefect or even Professor McGonagall. But what he could faintly hear was more concerning that any of those things. 

A little while longer than he had expected, a faint scuff of trainers against the beaten wooden floor alerted him that he was not alone. “Hermione,” he whispered.

Her head appeared two feet from him, wincing. “You heard me? I’m still working on Silencing Charms, it’s rather tricky to get down.”

“It’s fine, as long as no one is following you,” he said, accepting the Invisibility Cloak back and stuffing it into his robes.

“I don’t think so,” she whispered, frowning. “Harry, can you hear music?”

“Yeah,” he said, and they both knew what that implied.

“We’re too late!” she fretted.

“We can’t turn back now,” Harry told her. “If Snape or Quirrell is already past Fluffy, we have to go after them, and quickly. Maybe,” he paused, realizing how desperate he sounded, “maybe the defences will slow them down, or injure them, and we’ll be able to take them by surprise.”

The look in Hermione’s eyes told him how likely she thought it.

Harry shook his head. “We have to go. You’re sure no one saw you?”

“Well,” Hermione said, a bit embarrassed. “I didn’t put on the cloak until I had left the common room and…”

“And...?”

“Neville was there. I had to hex him – the poor dear tried to stop me so that I might not lose any more House points.” She grimaced. “He might have been right.”

“Hermione, we _can’t…”_

A feline howl echoed through the corridors, and Harry felt his blood freeze.

_“They’re up here, my sweet. I can feel it. Oh, I’ll get them good this time…”_

With a panicked look at Harry, Hermione ran to the door and wrenched it open. Harry had to cast a frantic Silencing Charm on it to prevent the closing of the door from waking up the entire wing of the castle.

They were trapped. Harry turned around and caught his first glimpse of _Fluffy_. Somehow, the beast was even larger than he had imagined, each of its three heads a good three or four times larger than either of the first years, joined at a beefy neck, its body covered in sleek black fur. It was asleep, and the source of the haunting melody, an enchanted harp, quickly answered his unspoken question.

But the harp’s music was growing fainter, and more erratic, as whatever charm had been placed upon it began to fade.

“… _Harry…”_ Hermione moaned.

He drew out the carved wooden pipe that Hagrid had whittled for him and despite his complete lack of musical training and just five minutes of previous practice, blew gently into it, changing the notes slowly and deliberately. Truth be told it sounded pretty dreadful, but Fluffy did not seem to care, as the three heads were soon snoring loudly.

Hermione crept towards the trapdoor, and managed to wrestle away a paw larger than she was, while Harry continued playing the most basic tune he could think of, hoping that Cerberuses didn’t get bored.

Hermione had the trapdoor open, and as Harry continued to play, he clambered over and looked down. There was only darkness below, endless and impenetrable. He had to stop playing to make his inspection, and with a snort, Fluffy began to stir. With a meaningful look at Hermione, he leapt into the void. Hermione’s scream told him she was following him, though it did elicit a rather angry response from the awakened guard dog. But they were too far away for that to matter.

After what had to be a drop of at least fifty feet, Harry hit a slide of something soft and pliable, then fell head over heels, losing his pipe along the way, landing with a soft ‘thump’ against what felt like a leafy pillow. “Lumos,” he breathed, drawing his wand as he stumbled against the yielding floor. “Hermione!”

The witch used her own Lighting Charm, and Harry could see she had landed on a small outcropping just above him. “Come down, it’s a soft landing.”

Hermione had an anxious look in her eyes. “Harry, don’t move. I think I know what this is.”

Harry frowned, trying to get closer to her. Something suddenly wrapped around his ankle and he went down face first. He tried to roll over, and then panicked as he felt something slither around his neck and squeeze hard. He flailed instinctively, and more of the creatures ‘limbs’ began to wrap themselves around him, holding him firm as they crushed the life from his body. Hermione was staring down at him, her face a blind panic. “Oh God! _HARRY!”_ she screamed. He tried to call back, but had no air to do so. He was starting to see spots as his lungs screamed for air. Hermione was babbling to herself, or maybe to him, but he couldn’t make out the words, and his strength was leaving him, and the harder he fought, the harder the creature constricted.

As he struggled to retain consciousness, there was a brilliant flash of light that utterly destroyed his night vision, and suddenly he was free, and then he was falling, and falling, and landing, hard, on something a whole lot less forgiving. What little air was in his lungs was knocked out of him, and he struggled to get to his feet. Something loomed out of the darkness, suddenly becoming more and more clear as a fiery light illuminated the cavern. “ _Look out!”_ Hermione cried, and Harry rolled out of the way as the head of the largest Venomous Tentacula he had ever seen bit down exactly where his torso had just been. Hermione landed in a crouch, and then was casting fire spells, settling the cavern ablaze, and rather upsetting the other denizens of this cave.

His head swam. Hermione was moving in choppy slow-motion as his oxygen-starved brain tried to recover. 

He groped on the ground, and by some miracle his fingers closed around his wand. As another shape flew at him, he cast, _“Reducto!”_ and the Tentacula was blown apart. No sooner had he caught his breath than another deadly plant was upon them, and then he felt something slithering around his legs, where it caught, and followed by pain shooting up and down his body, accompanied by the warm wetness of blood. 

His senses came back to him in a screaming rush of adrenaline, and he cried out as he heard Hermione shouting, and casting, and then her cry of alarm when she saw him, and Harry wrenched his arm free of another tentacle, pointed it at his feet, and gasped, “ _Relashio!”_ It worked well enough that he was able to scrabble forward and then drive back the clump of Thorned Stranglevines with a Burning Hex, and then looked around to see Hermione nearly killed by another Venomous Tentacula, with a spray of spines sticking out of her chest, and then he was fighting his way towards her, and there was fire all around them. He grabbed her, fought his way _through_ the flames, and though the heat was unbearable, he managed to make it to the other side, his robes smouldering.

And then he saw another trapdoor, so like the first one.

“ _Alohomora!”_

It flew open, but it was surrounded by Stranglevines, and Tentaculae, and all other manner of dangerous magical plants he could not identify. _Remember never to get on Sprout’s bad side_ , he thought grimly, despite the agony that was working its way through his body. 

“Harry! We’ve got to move!” Hermione cried, shooting off another Burning Hex at the oncoming vines.

“I know! Burning Hexes at that cluster on three, put everything you’ve got into them!”

He looked at her, into her eyes, glittering in the flames scattered about the chamber. He saw fear yes, but more than that, he saw resolve and courage and when Hermione reached her hand towards his he took it instinctively. As one the young witch and wizard trained their wands and Harry counted.

“One…two…THREE! _INCENDIO!”_

Twin balls of fire, Hermione's distinctly larger than his, shot into the formation and it began to burn with the screams of something alive, flaming vines and tentacles flailing through the air. Harry fired a powerful Blasting Hex, momentarily knocking back the largest of the Tentaculae. Hermione’s hand slipped from his. “GO!” 

Jumping over a burning mess of Stranglevines, he shoved Hermione into the trapdoor. He leapt through only to fall as his legs were caught again. The agony was even worse this time. With a scream, Harry bellowed, “ _REDUCTO_!” The Blasting Hex blew most of the vines to shreds, and allowed Harry to fall through the gap. Hermione caught him, though his weight knocked her to the ground. She gasped when she saw his legs.

But truth be told, with several spines sticking out of the front of her robes and her face cut and bloodied, she wasn’t looking much better. He also saw that she was cradling her left arm close to her chest.

“Hermione, you’re hurt!”

“ _I’m_ hurt?” she practically shrieked. “You _idiot_ , look at yourself! Can you walk?”

“Maybe,” he grunted, as the pain in his legs became a sharp throbbing.

“Those vines are poisonous, Harry,” Hermione said nervously.

“I’m alright,” he insisted.

He lay on the ground for a long moment, as the mild venom of the Stranglevines began to reside. He remembered that they normally preyed upon Muggle livestock, and drank the blood of their victims while their symbiotic partners, the Venomous Tentaculae, consumed the remainder of the corpse. They liked to hide at the edges of woods. Why he was remembering all these things _now_ was beyond him.

Hermione yelped as she began to pull out the spines scattered across her front. “It’s not deep,” she told him. By the time she had the last one out, a bit of the feeling had returned to his legs, though they were still covered in shallow puncture wounds and some deeper cuts where the thorns had dragged across his skin. Hermione helped him rip off strips of his robes and bandage the areas bleeding more heavily, but walking was not easy, as every step sent agony shooting up both legs. The right was worse than the left, though. Hermione, who had definitely gotten off the better of them, helped support him as they moved along the corridor.

“Nice work back there, at the start,” he gasped.

“Oh, right.” She smiled bashfully, and if the light had been bright enough, Harry suspected he would have seen her cheeks blooming. “Well, I figured out it was a Devil’s Snare easily enough – Professor Sprout talked briefly about them recently. And I knew that I needed a fire to stun it, but, well…I sort of panicked, because I didn’t have any _wood_ …”

Harry stared at her. She shook her head and even in the dim torchlight he could see she had gone red. “I know, I know, I’m a witch. I figured it out.”

With a tired smile, Harry decided to be grateful for small mercies. There was a door ahead of them, which, after a shared glance, Hermione unlocked with her free arm.

They crossed the threshold into an entirely different room, a high, cavernous space that seemed to be full of crystalline birds or some sort. _That doesn’t make sense_ … _who would have built this one?_ _Maybe McGonagall, but more likely…_ “Flitwick,” Harry said. “Hermione, they’re not birds, they're  _keys_.”

“ _Very good_ , Mr. Potter,” said a familiar voice. Hermione recoiled and the shock nearly pulled them both to the ground. “Ah, ah, that’s far enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You don't get any points for guessing who it is. I'm not going that far off canon in this one. 
> 
> Yes, Snape is on to them. It never made any sense that he wouldn't be, honestly, he's clearly the most suspicious of Quirrell and the only one willing to confront him directly (hence the conversation Harry witnesses that gives him the wrong idea in canon and a...slightly less wrong idea here). And yes, Snape used Legilimency on Hermione. 
> 
> To be honest I always thought Sprout's contribution to the defenses was a bit...weak when compared to the others, so I beefed them up a bit. Of course, there's also the whole problem of three first years penetrating the defenses around the stone with some minor injuries, so, yeah, this whole thing was kind of a terrible idea by Dumbledore, save the Mirror itself. The whole 'take it, but not use it' thing was pretty clever. 
> 
> The mechanics of how three (or two) first years end up being the only thing standing between Voldemort and immortality are a big old mess of Idiot Ball and plot hole, which I've done my best to remedy, though frankly as an author you are left with a choice between making Dumbledore an idiot, a manipulative abuser of his students, or some combination thereof. None of the other books are quite so bad in that regard, even Chamber.
> 
> It's easy to say that Harry should have told Daphne about all of this and it could have saved him a lot of trouble, but honestly, have you met an eleven-year old boy? I imagine that impulse towards independence would only be stronger in the magical world, where the timeline of adulthood seems to be moved up several years.


	14. The Colour of Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deep beneath Hogwarts, Harry meets his destiny, and the fate of the world hangs in the balance.

“I daresay you aren’t in much condition to resist at this point.” 

Stepping out of the shadows to pluck Hermione’s wand from her outstretched hand was Professor Quirrell, clad in slightly torn and singed purple robes.

Except it _wasn’t_ really Quirrell at all. Not the Quirrell who had trembled before the first year Defence classes. Not the Quirrell who had been cowed before Snape. Not even, it seemed, the Quirrell that Tonks remembered from her days at school. 

Harry had seen glimpses of someone else entirely, but these slips still did not prepare him. _This_ Quirrell absolutely brimmed with confidence, his posture straight and upright, his eyes commanding, cool, and utterly calm, a faint smile on his face, his wand held delicately before him, gently swaying in a relaxed grip. “Oh, don’t act so surprised to see me. Unless you were expecting someone else? Severus, perhaps? Yes, he does seem the type, doesn’t he?”

“We thought it might be you,” Hermione said quietly beside him.

Quirrell smiled lazily. “Did you now? Well, you two were always too smart for your own good. And you exhibited an aggravating tendency to stick your noses in the business of others. I suspected this might happen, but decided I would see if Pomona’s plants or Hagrid’s beast finished you off first. It would be far easier to explain your corpses that way, as just a pair of insolent children who ventured where they shouldn't have been.” 

He stepped closer, and Harry felt the air in the damp chamber grow even colder. His scar burned lightly, like someone was holding a flame a few inches away. “You are truly remarkable children to have come this far, and to have escaped with such minor injuries. A pair of first years, and one a Muggleborn at that!" His smile faded into a sneer. "But your adventure is over, let me be clear.” He locked eyes with Harry. There was no a hint of warmth or compassion there. “Now, you will come with me, or the girl dies, and slowly. Do you understand me, Potter?” 

“ _Harry,”_ Hermione hissed in warning. 

“Not another word from you, Mudblood,” Quirrell barked, and Hermione jerked back as if she'd been slapped. “I don’t _want_ your friend here dead, but I assure you that I can be very...creative when it comes to inflicting pain. I’ve always been _fascinated_ by the Cruciatus, you know? As well as the less, shall we say,  _re_ _fined_ methods of torture. It’s been a bit of a hobby for a number of years now. So what will it be, children? Will you behave?” He raised his wand and pointed it straight at Hermione's heart.

Harry stared at his best friend for a long moment, then turned to Quirrell and nodded. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Hermione do the same, though much more hesitantly. 

“Good, good. Now, your wand, Potter. Roll it over here like a good boy.”

Struggling to stay upright on his injured legs, Harry dug his wand from his robes and with a glance at Quirrell he rolled it along the ground. Their Defence professor smiled and snatched it up, then gestured at the commotion above them.

“So, Potter, it seems you know what to do. The brooms are right there. I’m rather rubbish at flying as it happens, but you’re a natural, aren’t you? Find the key that fits the door. Now." At his look towards a still frozen Hermione, Quirrell smiled. "Don’t worry, she’s safe as long as you are useful to me. Go.”

Leaving his friend’s side with only the greatest reluctance, Harry closed his eyes, and hobbling over, mounted one of the rickety old brooms. It slowly rose into the air, and Harry found himself in the midst of a swarm of winged keys, which flashed by far too quickly to be easily identified. Quirrell's menacing voice came from below.

“Think, boy. The lock is tarnished silver, large, probably a single tooth. _Hurry_ , boy. Your friend’s life is at stake!” 

Harry batted aside a few keys that got too close to his face and desperately searched the maelstrom of flickering wings and shining metal for the one he needed. He thought he spotted it and dove, only to lose it in a swarm of others. The broom he rode was much less responsive than his sporty Nimbus, and he had to struggle to pick up speed.

“Running out of time, Potter!”

Trying to ignore his former professor’s taunts, and his growing worry about Hermione, Harry willed himself to focus. He searched methodically and carefully, as the keys were not moving as erratically as say, a Snitch would. And then he found it. It made a valiant effort to escape, but Harry drove it up to the ceiling and trapped it against the stone. He descended rapidly, as the other keys began to swarm around him, cutting his robes and grazing his skin. He fought his way to the door and forced the resisting key into the lock. He practically fell through the doorway as his injured legs began to give out. Quirrell was right behind him, wordlessly freezing a swarm of keys as he wrestled a struggling Hermione into the next chamber, slamming the door loudly behind them.

“Well done, Potter," he said, clapping his hands. Then he took in their surroundings. "Ah, yes. I will need you both for this one, I’m afraid.”

They had entered a larger cavern, filled almost entirely by a black and white marble chessboard. Black was already set up, while white was milling around on their side. “McGonagall always loved wizard’s chess,” Quirrell muttered. “It’s never been my strong suit. But we'll make do. I shall be the white king. Granger, queen’s side bishop. Potter…king’s side castle. Hurry up!” 

And so they began. Quirrell was not a bad player, so much as Harry could judge such things, but he was not particularly skilled either. The pawns of each side commenced annihilating one another, and Harry could not help but wince as he imagined himself or Hermione taking those blows. For his part, Harry had taken three pieces, and been judged valuable enough that a knight had been sacrificed to spare him.

Hermione took her counterpart bishop, and that set up a dilemma for the black player. “Check,” she said, her voice faint and frightened.

The black queen moved to block her, and now she was in danger. 

Harry looked back at Quirrell, who had a satisfied look on his face. “King’s side castle, A6.” 

“Professor!”

Quirrell's voice was pitiless. “I believe I gave you an order, Potter! You are in no place to disobey me. Now. A6. Or I just kill her, and save us all the trouble. Do you understand me?”

Taking in a shaky breath, Harry moved to his selected square. Hermione wasn’t even looking at him; she was staring into the lifeless eyes of the black queen. As he settled into place, the queen began to move. Closer, and closer, and closer and Hermione seemed to curl into herself. And then the queen raised her mace, and brought it down. Harry screamed her name as Hermione was hammered to the floor, where she lay still. A pawn dragged her off the board. 

“King’s side castle, A5. _Now_ , Potter!”

Harry obeyed, fighting down a wave of sheer fury.

Two moves later, and Quirrell’s strategy became clear. He had boxed in the black king. “King’s side bishop F2. Checkmate.”

The black king nodded to Quirrell, and then let his sword fall to the ground. Harry was off in an instant. Hermione had a bloody gash on her scalp that had sprinkled her bushy brown hair with crimson droplets. The mace had done its greatest damage on her shoulder, though. She moaned as Harry knelt by her, finding her hands and holding them tight. _I’m here, Hermione. I’m so sorry._  

“Get her moving, Potter,” Quirrell barked impatiently.

“She’s _hurt!”_ he protested.

“I really don’t care,” Quirrell replied with a shrug. “She’s expendable, and her greatest value is in motivating you…though I may have a use for her remarkable little mind shortly, if I am correct, and I usually am. Very well, let me see.”

The man walked over to them and shoved Harry roughly out of the way. As he pushed past, a bolt of pain exploded through his scar, and he gasped. What was going on? His mind was far too clouded with worry and pain to think properly. 

Quirrell examined Hermione roughly, and she yelped in protest. “Broken collarbone, I would guess. Nothing crippling. _Episkey!_ That ought to help. And this.” He waved his wand, and a splint and sling wrapped themselves around Hermione’s left arm and shoulder. “Up, girl, we have little enough time.”

“Hermione, do what he says,” Harry begged her. Quirrell was getting frustrated, and he was afraid of what the man might do if his best friend became more of a liability than a help.

He _hated_ being this helpless. He was the Boy-Who-Lived, how could he be reduced to such a…such a _child?_ Quirrell was just another bully trying to cause him pain, and he had no way to fight back. Not without risking everything, and he wasn’t prepared to do that.

Yet.

The Gryffindor struggled to her feet, and Harry helped support her, even as his own legs burned and buckled underneath him. Her eyes were glazed with pain, but she struggled on through the hell they had found themselves in. Harry tried to silently reassure her, and squeezed his arm gently around her uninjured shoulder, gritting his teeth against his own agony. 

Quirrell regarded them coldly. “How _touching_. You really care for this Muggleborn, don’t you, Potter? If you do, then you will follow me, now.” He frowned. “Come to think of it, I’m not sure what I need you for, boy. Perhaps _you_ are the expendable one.”

A chilling hiss, almost serpentine, silenced their captor. Harry frowned. It sounded like it was coming _from_ Quirrell, but the man seemed to be having a short conversation, or rather, an argument. _Someone else is here._ _Voldemort?_ The prospect terrified him. Hermione should not be here. None of them should.

The exchange, or whatever it was, ended. “Very well. This next test is of my own devising, and I would merely ask you to stand aside while I deal with the troll. Attempt to run and I will kill you. Understood?” 

Harry nodded. Hermione was too dazed to protest. He feared she might be concussed.

Watching Quirrell dispose of the troll was something remarkable, even so. It was half-again as large as the one that had nearly killed him on Halloween, but Quirrell seemed to be in its mind, as he wore it out with false attacks and hexes that served more to irritate the beast than to bring it down. Then he caught the troll’s club on the apex of a swing, ripped it free, and with a flick of his wrist, crushed the creature’s skull with its own bludgeon. It collapsed and the room shook from the impact.

Quirrell dusted his hands. “All too easy, when you know how they think. Because they _do_ think, Potter. Like an animal thinks, but they are not entirely mindless. Follow,” he commanded, and Harry half-carried Hermione through the chamber, past the troll, which appeared to be somehow still breathing. 

They stumbled over yet another threshold, and no sooner had Harry limped past it then a blaze of purple flames shot up from the floor, blocking their exit. On the opposite side, roaring fire the colour of onyx now burned fiercely.

Before them was a table, and on it a series of bottles of varying sizes and colours, along with a piece of parchment.

"Potter, leave the girl and get me the parchment. Now!"

Hermione managed to stay upright as he limped towards the table...or was it an altar? He retrieved the parchment and sullenly returned it to his captor, before rejoining Hermione.

Quirrell read it closely “Yes, yes, I had expected this. One will get us through, one will take us back, a few will be harmless, and a few will kill us in short order. Alright, Granger, logic puzzles are your area – I might have been a Ravenclaw, but I always preferred a good book to these sorts of mind-games." As Hermione looked back to him in disbelief, he smiled that cruel smile. "Just to focus your mind, whichever you choose will be first tested on Potter. I recommend you get it right on the first go.”

Hermione, who had barely been able to stand just a few minutes ago, threw their so-called Defence professor a fiery glare and stepped away from Harry, taking the parchment from Quirrell and reading it carefully, mumbling the words to herself. Quirrell came up behind him to place his wand against the back of Harry’s neck as the Boy-Who-Lived fought to keep his wounded legs from collapsing under him. The individual injuries were not all that severe themselves, but the sheer number of them made any kind of walking – or standing - difficult. Harry gritted his teeth against the pain and stood still as Hermione worried over Snape’s puzzle.

“… _three of us are killers, waiting hidden in a line…always find some on nettle wine’s left side…neither dwarf nor giant holds death in their insides…”_

“Hurry, girl, or I may get bored and entertain myself with Potter.” 

The bushy-haired Gryffindor spun to face them. “I’m _trying!”_ Hermione practically screamed, tears streaming down her face. “It’s not _my_ fault that you wizards haven’t an ounce of logic between you.”

“Mind your tongue, girl.” 

Hermione ignored him and went back to her task. Harry knew he was putting his life in her hands, but it was not the first time, and it would scarcely be the last. _Besides, I’m not really making the choices here_ , he thought, acutely aware of the wand pressing gently into the back of his neck. 

“I’ve got it!”

Hermione came over carrying a small bottle. She stopped short of them and stared down Quirrell. “Let him go, and I’ll hand it over.”

The man laughed mirthlessly. “Oh, silly girl, do you think that’s how it works? _Wrong._ Give it to Potter, one sip is all that’s needed. Then one for yourself. And if you value your life and his, you will leave one for me. Otherwise I will have to improvise, which I believe will require the blood of one of you. I don’t think that sounds terribly pleasant, do you? I thought not. Well then, go on.”

Hermione, who was standing with truly astounding calm, the tear tracks down her face aside, offered the bottle to him. “Trust me,” she said softly, and he did. 

He swallowed only a drop, but it felt as though his insides had frozen solid, and he shivered violently. “I’m fine,” he gasped. “Just…take it, Hermione. Trust me.”

She nodded, Quirrell all but forgotten, her eyes fixed upon his, and lifted the bottle to her lips. With a shiver and a disdainful look, she handed the bottle to Quirrell, who drained it. He laughed off a tremor of his own. “There is such thing as being _too careful_ , children. I hope you got enough to make it through. But I suppose we’ll find out soon, won’t we? Onwards.”

Harry stepped through the fire first. A ripple of heat passed over him, but the small amount of potion had apparently been enough, as he found himself in a great domed chamber with no further injuries.

At the centre of the room was a dais. And on that dais… 

The Mirror of Erised.

“ _Enough of this. Deal with the Mudblood, my servant.”_

Harry spun around at the cold, serpentine voice, and Hermione’s eyes went wide as Quirrell turned his wand on her, a malevolent glee lighting his features. Harry tried to scream as Quirrell cast, but his voice was caught in his throat. A jet of red light shot forth and caught Hermione in the midsection, her eyes rolled back, and she collapsed to the floor.

A Stunning Spell. That’s all it was. She was still _alive_.

Quirrell saw his face and laughed. “Come now, Potter, do you really think I’d waste such valuable leverage? Now, to business.” He snapped his fingers, and Harry suddenly found his legs bound by tight coils of rope. Losing his balance, he fell, just managing to avoid dashing his skull against the stone floor. He wished desperately for his wand, for some way to fight back, but Quirrell was nothing if not thorough, and had made resistance a losing proposition since he had first captured them.

His former Defence professor was muttering to himself, circling the Mirror and growling in exasperation. Harry looked over to Hermione, who lay still, but the rise and fall of her chest gave him enough hope to stay focused. _If she dies…_ he fought it off. To lose her now was truly unthinkable.

 “…Blasted mirror! I see myself with the Stone, presenting it to my master! But how can I get it out of the Mirror! Shall I _break_ it?” Quirrell cursed. “Master, aide me!”

“ _Use the boy…use the boy…”_ said the same high, cold snake-like voice that had spoken before. Again it seemed to be coming from Quirrell himself, but his mouth was not moving. So where…

 Quirrell waved his wand at Harry, and he found himself floating off the ground, feet still bound, and dumped unceremoniously in front of the Mirror. Harry didn’t know why, but he closed his eyes and turned his head down to face the floor. He _could not_ look in that Mirror, whatever the cost. He _could not_. His scar burned fiercely but he scarcely took any notice.

“… _he must see…”_  

“Open your eyes, Potter! Look upon the Mirror! Obey me! _Crucio!”_

Harry’s body exploded into the most intense agony he had ever felt. His pains of the past hour were insignificant aches by comparison. His blood boiled, his scar was on fire, and his skin felt as if it had been stabbed by a thousand burning knives. His bones felt cold against the burning of his flesh. He thrashed around on the ground in agony, screaming at the top of his lungs. Quirrell held him under the curse for what seemed an eternity before releasing him. Harry rolled over and kept his eyes firmly shut, shivering violently at the after-effects of the Unforgivable Curse.

“Look upon it, Potter! Look upon it _now_!” Quirrell screamed, his voice mad with rage.

“No.” Harry spat. He felt his body lifted up before he was dashed into the stone floor, hard.

“ _Crucio.”_

The chamber was again filled with Harry’s screams as the Cruciatus Curse burned, sending ripples of agony up and down his body until darkness crept into the edge of his vision. When Quirrell finally lifted the spell, violent coughs wracked his body, and Harry watched in detached horror as he saw the floor speckled with his blood. His glasses had been dashed against the ground in his writhing, and one of the lenses was spider-webbed with cracks, somewhat obscuring his vision. 

“Had enough, Potter? Or will another dose be necessary to break you? I haven’t all day, boy, but rest assured, I have enough time to leave you a babbling wreck. Do _not_ test my patience. 

Harry rolled onto his stomach, and remained silent. He knew he had to hold on. It wasn’t bravery, this defiance, it was necessity. _Surely_ Dumbledore had some way of knowing that the defences of the Stone had been breached… _Surely_ help was coming, and soon. He just had to occupy Quirrell long enough…

And not die in the process.

“ _Enough!”_ the mysterious voice hissed. “ _I would look upon him again, face-to-face. Release me!”_

“Master, you are not strong enou… _aaarghhh!”_

“ _Do not doubt me, slave. Turn around and let me see the boy.”_

“Yes, Master…” Quirrell whimpered, and he turned his back on Harry. The Boy-Who-Lived watched, spellbound, as the man before him began to slowly unwrap his turban. But what was under it was far more foul than rotted garlic. What met his eyes was right out of his nightmares.

And it was _embedded into the back of Quirrell’s head_.

It was a chalk-white, noseless face, with a thin mouth and two narrow slits that held glowing crimson where eyes should be. And then Harry’s scar erupted, and his concentration was broken. He tried to close his eyes and look away, but his body would not obey and he was held there, contemplating death itself. He strained against the ropes binding him, trying to run.

_No…no, this is impossible…_

But so it was that Lord Voldemort stared back into his very soul, sending jolts of pain and raw, hot _anger_ coursing through his body.

Awkwardly, Voldemort-as-Quirrell began advancing on Harry, who was backpedalling with his arms and dragging his bound and wounded legs.

“ _Haaarrryyy…Potter,”_   the deformed face hissed, “ _See now what I have become…so weak that I must share the form of another…and because of_ you… _”_ Voldemort laughed, high and cold and devoid of any trace of humanity. “ _As a puny infant, you defeated me…today, you cower before me and beg for mercy just like your parents. How pathetic…”_

_“Liar!”_ Harry cried out, finding strength he didn’t know he had. His voice was weak but his resolve unwavering. “My parents died to protect me. And they did. I lived.”

Voldemort’s face gave what could best be described as a scowl. “ _Indeed, that is true, Harry…but this time you have no mother to save you. No one to die for you…”_

Harry refused to break eye contact. It was a small victory, as his forehead _sizzled_. 

“ _You could join me, you know,”_ Voldemort said, almost off-handedly. “ _You are a powerful wizard, Harry. You show great promise…though your choice of friends leaves something to be desired.”_

As if offering proof of his sincerity, he snapped his - Quirrell's - fingers, and the ropes around his legs fell away.

“I’d never join you,” Harry spat, coughing so hard his teeth clacked together.

Voldemort laughed, and Harry’s scar burned anew. “ _Such courage in a boy so young…but there is a darkness within you, a burgeoning power. …We could bring back your parents…I have ways of defeating Death itself. Together, we could undo_ so _many wrongs. Dumbledore has been manipulating you all this time."_

The shockwave those words sent through him was palpable. He could not deny that it was true. 

Voldemort continued, heedless of his inner revelation. " _He sent you down here with your friend to face death. He wants to see if his little hero can stand up to the challenge - you are just another pawn to him. Join me, and take your revenge. Be the master of your_ own _destiny.”_

Harry was frozen. For an instant, the possibility of seeing his parents again entered his mind, as well as rage at Dumbledore for toying with him in this way, for risking not only _his_ life, but also Hermione’s. And then he saw ghostly images of his parents in the fire behind Voldemort, beckoning to him. His heart ached and he reached out with a shaking hand, pulling himself forward with the other.

And then he looked away. Words spoken by Daphne, long ago, echoed in his thoughts.

 “ _No spell can resurrect the dead, Harry.”_

_“I’m here for you, and I always will be…”_

_“NO!”_ Harry screamed. The images of his parents vanished. Voldemort’s fury overwhelmed him, and he dropped back to the ground, clutching at his forehead.

With what might have been a sigh, Voldemort turned Quirrell’s hand around so that his wand pointed straight between Harry’s eyes.

“ _CRUCIO!”_

But even as he braced himself for the pain, Voldemort’s curse burned significantly less than his servant’s. He ached, everywhere, but there was simply no comparison.

Harry decided not to push his luck, and cried out as though his blood were boiling.

Voldemort lifted his wand, laughing softly. Harry’s arms and legs snapped together and he found himself again lifted off the ground until he was hovering before the Mirror of Erised. His mind addled by pain, and unable to close his eyes, Harry stared into the Mirror. 

He saw himself, covered in bruises, blood trailing from his nose and mouth, his robes torn to tatters, standing up straight. A wry smile crossed this Harry’s features, and he reached into his ruined robes. His reflection pulled out a blood red stone, grinned, and put it back. And abruptly, Harry felt the presence of something heavy in his own pocket.

He had the Philosopher’s Stone.

Harry was dumped to the ground, and at that moment, he wished yet again that he had his wand back. And then it suddenly slipped out of Quirrell’s robes, and rolled towards him, and he had it, and he pulled himself to his feet, adrenaline pumping wildly, his heart pounding in unison with the pain in his head. His legs felt heavy, but the shooting pain was barely there. 

Voldemort laughed, and turned around so that Quirrell was facing forwards. The man let out a blood-curdling scream, and his own face rippled and tore, crimson slits replacing cold blue eyes, and Harry almost gagged from the sight. “ _Are you really so foolish as to_ fight _me, Potter?”_

“ _Reducto!”_

Voldemort batted the hex aside, and dropped into a dueling stance.

Harry dodged the return Cruciatus, and fired back a Disarming Hex, which Voldemort blocked with a wave of his wand. A whispered spell knocked him to the ground and sent spasms through his muscles, but he recovered almost instantly.

Something was going on, something was _wrong_ with Voldemort’s magic. He should _not_ still be alive. 

“ _I grow tired of this, Potter,”_ he hissed. _“Give me the Stone, and I will allow your_ companion _to live.”_

Harry started. He had forgotten Hermione’s presence entirely. His mind began to race. He couldn’t lose her…but what would it matter if Voldemort got the Stone?

Quirrell's body strode over to the unconscious girl and lowered his wand. “ _The Stone, Potter...or she dies. I can tell you care a great deal for this Mudblood slag…_

_“Monster,”_ Harry growled.

To his surprise, Voldemort chuckled. “ _So they say.”_

“I. Won’t. Give. It. To. You.” He spoke every syllable like a curse.

“ _H_ _e said you were of my House, yet you fight a battle you cannot win_.” Voldemort sounded disappointed.

He moved closer, and Harry felt his body collapsing and struggled to keep his grip on his wand, for all the good it did him. Voldemort stared into Harry’s eyes, and he saw recognition dawn.

_“I see it in you. You know I cannot touch you, that you are protected by your Mudblood mother’s sacrifice. You don’t wish your friend harmed, but are intelligent enough to realize that I won’t spare either of you if I am returned to body…Ah, a dilemma, there…but let us test that resolve.”_

Hermione’s unconscious form rose from the floor, hanging limply like a grotesque puppet with cut strings.

The _thing_ before him levelled his wand at Hermione’s chest, and whispered, almost lovingly, “ _Abrumpo!”_  

A scream died in Harry’s throat as the Slicing Curse tore into her side, spraying blood, and she was dumped to the floor as Voldemort turned away. She was still alive, she _had_ to be, but she would not be for much longer. Fighting back tears, he tore his eyes away from the sight, and stood unsteadily on his injured legs. 

“No."

“ _I have underestimated you, Potter,”_ Voldemort admitted. “ _Perhaps you are colder than I imagined. After all, what use is a Mudblood? All they do is die.”_

Harry was shaking with rage, but couldn’t choke out anything but a primal growl of fury and pain. His strength was leaving him, fading fast. He could feel his death drawing near, and for the first time he truly wished they had not come down here, to die.

“ _But I grow tired of this game,”_   the snake-like voice spoke. Voldemort waved his hand, and Harry was knocked hard to the ground. He levelled his wand at Harry. “ _The Stone, Potter, or poor Daphne Dressler will have to bury yet another of her loved ones.”_

Harry met his gaze, dazed but defiant.

_“You may be protected in some measure from my magic, else you would surely be dead now. But Quirinus was not present on that day I killed your mother, and_ he _will do as I ask._ ”

The face of the man before him melted and reformed again, and the cruel if pain-glazed eyes of Quirrell returned. 

“ _AVADA KEDAVRA!”_ Try as he may, Harry couldn’t keep his eyes closed. Speeding death rushed towards him, and a rushing sound filled his ears. He saw the green light wash over his chest, and his last thought…

_I failed you, Daphne…_

 

But it was not cold darkness that met him then, as he expected. Rather, he felt a burning on his breast, and saw brilliant red light burst from the front of his robes, filling the chamber and bathing both of the combatants in a fierce crimson glow.

The red aura began to grow brighter, pulsing regularly. Quirrell’s - or were they Voldemort’s? - eyes narrowed, and he raised his wand for a second time.

And then the world exploded.

With a blinding flash red became purest white. It enveloped Harry and Voldemort, and all they could see through it was each other.

Harry felt a sensation the likes of which he had never felt before. Despite everything; all he had been through and suffered and seen, despite the danger he was in, despite his knowledge that Hermione lay just beyond his reach, slowly bleeding out, he felt safe and serene. His mind was at peace, his wounds burned no more, healing energies coursing through his broken body.

He felt content. Happy. _Is this death?_ he wondered.

He felt _loved_.

An affectionate voice, one remembered only in dreams, whispered in his ear:

_“I love you, Harry. My son.”_

It was as though he was cradled in his mother’s arms. Every sorrow, every fear, every grief, every destructive, painful emotion was swept away. Memories, _happy_ memories, _joyful_ memories, began to play in front of him. He was both a part of them and not, seeing through his own eyes and at the same time those of an observer.

 

_He stared with months-old eyes up at a mobile that featured broomsticks, a snitch, a quaffle, and a Gryffindor Lion. A face entered his vision, a beautiful woman with flowing auburn hair and vibrant green eyes that loved with every fiber of her being. She pulled him up out of the cradle, and caressed his hair, pressing him gently to her bosom. Harry revelled in these feelings of comfort and love, the world forgotten, the smell of his long-dead mother filling his nostrils._

The world changed. A new memory.

_A black haired man with proud hazel eyes and wire-frame glasses entered his sight. He gazed upon mother and child with unbridled love and affection. He reached out and ruffled his small son’s tuft of black hair, before his hand was playfully slapped away by his wife. He bent and kissed her on the lips, before reaching out for his son. His wife placed Harry in his arms, and he glanced furtively at her before ruffling his hair again. He chuckled, then took off his glasses, and placed them on his son's face. He burst out laughing at what he saw._

_T_ _wo more people entered the room. A tall man with laughing eyes and long black hair that fell to his shoulders cackled at the sight of the bespectacled baby, pushing the woman standing beside him. A woman with honey-blond hair and loving grey-green eyes that Harry knew so very well. She too burst out laughing, holding on to the other man for support. She came forward and pulled her red-headed friend into a tender embrace, then took the baby from his father. She clutched him to her chest, caressing his back. The baby gurgled in pleasure._

_The scene began to fade…_

 

The chamber came back into focus, and with it the pain of his injuries, but they were somehow less than they had been before, and he felt strength return to his body. Death no longer felt so close.

The Mirror of Erised stood in the centre of the underground chamber on its dais, undamaged by the flare of magical energy. Hermione Granger lay unconscious and bleeding profusely on the ground to its right. And in front of the fire blocking the entrance, a bruised and battered eleven-year old boy and a Professor possessed by the most feared Dark Lord since Grindelwald.

Harry saw Quirrell/Voldemort writing in pain, heard faintly inhuman screams, and then saw a bolt of sickly green light take the possessed man right between the shoulder blades. The professor's body collapsed, and Harry could now see, through cracked glasses, a very familiar looking man with greasy black hair falling around his face, wand outstretched, raw determination in his features. 

“Potter,” Snape said, moving closer. Harry felt his body failing him, and the world flickered.

There was a bone-chilling scream and a rush of wind that consumed it, and a mass of smoke billowed from the body of Quirrell as it crumbled to ash. Snape regarded the sight with horror and awe, as what appeared to be a face made of roiling smoke flew towards the fire with another scream, and was gone.

Harry saw another figure as darkness encroached upon his vision, tall and white-haired and bearded, and then he looked for Hermione, and he saw her face, and she looked like she was sleeping, and at long last, he surrendered.

 

 

His gruesome deed done, Severus stared upon the Mirror of Erised, horror dawning upon him. It showed him a vision that had nought to do with the Stone, as it should have. He saw instead himself and two others, and it was a vision both tantalizing and completely impossible, and so he tore his eyes away from the red hair of Lily Evans and let them instead fall upon her true son.

Potter was a frightful sight, but Granger was bleeding profusely from a serious wound in her side. Severus waved his wand and sealed the injury, stopping the bleeding temporarily, though she would need Blood Restorative potions if she were to pull through.

“Thank you, Severus.”

Snape spun on his heel, enraged, and the other man met his eyes with an admirable courage.

“ _You_ did this, old man. I warned you, I warned you _again and again_ , but you would not listen. Are you content _now_ , Albus?”

There was genuine sorrow on the elderly wizard’s face. “I suspected this would happen, that Harry would seek to reach the Stone. And I thought…I thought it would be a challenge, but nothing more…” 

Severus had rarely loathed Albus Dumbledore more than he did in that moment. “And _afterwards_? When he confronted the Dark Lord _himself?_ How did you think _that_ would go, _Headmaster_?” he spat the title like a curse.

“I thought I would be here to aid him,” the old man said wistfully. “But again Tom outfoxed me, had me summoned to the Wizengamot, just as I thought to return.” 

“How did you not anticipate this, Headmaster?” Severus demanded.

Albus was not listening to him. Severus could see the tears in Dumbledore’s eyes, and it unnerved him. _Deeply._ “Oh my children. My _poor_ children. Severus, we must see to them at once. I felt…the _Cruciatus_. And the Stone…it saved them, Severus. If not for the Stone, and winds of blind Fortune, we might have lost all.”

“What are you _talking_ about?” Severus demanded. “ _Where_ is the Stone?”

“ _Gone_. Destroyed. But not before it did something I doubt even dear old Nicholas could have predicted. Harry Potter is now the Boy-Who-Lived…Twice. Quite remarkable, really,” Albus said, in a voice he generally used for fascinating academic concepts. “The Stone is…or was, rather, Blood Magic of its own sort, dragonsblood, to be precise. The irony was that it was always suited to immortality than alchemy, which is what Nicholas and Perenelle sought in the first place.”

His smile faded. “Severus, please attend to Harry while I transport Miss Granger. _Fawkes!_ ”

There was a brilliant flash of fire, and Dumbledore’s majestic phoenix appeared, singing. It flew to Granger’s side, and as if it had known all that occurred, cried a pearly tear onto the gaping wound, which hissed but slowly closed.

“Thank you, Fawkes. Now, Severus, please take Harry, and take my hand. This is rather faster than walking,” he said with a maddening grin. 

Severus never wanted to hate the man more in his life as he grabbed Potter’s wrist and closed his fingers upon an ancient hand.

And then the world was fire, and they were gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We finally got there! Poor kids. 
> 
> Philosopher's Stone hews really closely the the first book, mostly because it is such a straightforward A-B mystery/adventure that there isn't a huge amount to change around without losing the entire purpose of the story, which is to introduce the reader to Harry, Voldemort, and Hogwarts, while still managing to be a self-contained narrative. Slytherin's Heir (the next installment in my AU, which I hope to start posting before the new year) will begin to depart from canon more strongly, though the basic premise of the retold stories will remain the same.


	15. Terminus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle, there is much to be said.

“ _It’s alright, Harry. I’m here now. You’re safe.”_

She gently ran her fingers through his hair, whispering softly into the unconscious boy’s ears as if he could hear her, because deep down, a part of her was certain that he could.

And because she was too terrified to even entertain the possibility that he was lost to her, even for a short time.

She felt _him_ enter the room a few minutes before, his extraordinary magical power humming gently in the back of her mind. Almost every witch or wizard born of the O’Connor line could _sense_ magic, feel it as if with a sixth sense. It was both a gift and a distraction at times.

She paid him no heed. After all, what was most important to her lay still on the bed, his skin pale but still looking better than it had even just earlier that afternoon, when she had pushed her way past a nearly inconsolable Minerva McGonagall and gone to his side with only a half glance at the adjacent bed, where his best friend lay sleeping.

“ _Daphne_.”

The voice behind her was ancient and old, and full of desperation and pain. And it was the _pleading_ that so surprised her, and caused her to look up, even as she caressed the boy’s forehead, and ran a gentle finger over the angry lightning bolt scar that marred it.

“Albus,” she said curtly, still not looking behind her, still refusing to meet his eyes.

“Words _cannot_ convey how much I regret all that has transpired. I am deeply sorry, for I have let Harry and Hermione down as my students, and I have betrayed your trust as my friend.” 

Her voice was flat and unyielding as she struggled to keep her emotions in check. “He nearly _died_ , Albus. So did she. You left an eleven-year old boy and a twelve-year old girl to navigate traps and defences put in place by some of the most skilled witches and wizards of this age, and then you left them -  _you left them_ to the mercy of _Voldemort_.”

She spun around, her blood pounding in her ears, her hand itching to feel the cool wood of her wand, but she did not dare, because she honestly did not know if she would be able to stop herself if she were armed. “You _left_ them!” she cried, her voice breaking. “Why? Tell me _why_ _,_ Albus?”

Daphne had scarcely seen the Headmaster so lost for words. His voice was uncertain and _old_ as he spoke, “I cannot…as is so often the case, my reasons were quite _sound_ when the decision was made. When I received an owl from the Ministry, I _did_ suspect it to be a trap, but set out in the expectation that so long as I was present, this standoff would continue, and, so I believed, events had to be set in motion before the end of the school term. I fully intended to return in time to aid him, but…I was delayed. Voldemort still has allies at the Ministry, and Quirinus must have enlisted their help in keeping me away.”

“Because _he_ had to do it, Albus? Because _he_ , just a child, a bloody _child! **He** had to stop Voldemort?_ ” Her voice cracked with tears, and her rage returned. She could feel the crackle of magical energy around her, poised and ready to strike.

A bit of the strength and determination returned to Dumbledore’s remarkable blue eyes. “Their destinies _are_ linked, Daphne. I thought…I thought that if Harry were to stand a chance in the battle to come, he must meet Voldemort when he was at his weakest. A practice round, if you will. I was…I was supposed to be there to keep him from any great harm. I did not…I did not plan for Miss Granger’s presence, which was tremendous foolishness on my part.”

“A _practice_ round,” she repeated, in disbelief. “The same kind of _practice_ that got so many of my friends and schoolmates killed and maimed fifteen years ago?” she demanded. Her terrible memories of the Siege of Hogwarts were not easily pushed aside when she saw children looking like they had been through a war. That it was _Harry_ lying broken before her…

“I will never forgive myself, Daphne, surely you _know_ that,” he replied.

“And _I_ will never forgive you for playing this, this… _irresponsible, reckless_ … _game_ with Harry’s life – he is _not_ your _plaything_ , Albus!” she shouted. Magic crackled around her, like lightning in the air, just  _itching_ for a place to strike. 

Daphne took a deep breath, trying to calm herself, let her anger wash through her. The magical energy subsided. She could not afford to lose it now, not in front of _him_. Harry deserved...Harry didn't need to see that.

“I _should_ withdraw him. Take him away from you as I did before. I was clearly _right_ to, after all.”

“Perhaps you were. I am old, and I have forgotten what it is to be a child.” 

Somehow that made her angrier. “That’s not the half of it," Daphne said, standing tall and straightening her shoulders as she had been taught at a young age. "You are blinded by _perspective_. You think you can see how it will all unfold, if the proper preparations are made, the right pigs are fattened for the slaughter, certain errors are made by the adversary. And then you will win, and you will comfort yourself with the idea that it was all worthwhile, even at a terrible cost.”

Dumbledore’s smile held no hint of joy and no shortage of bitterness. “I do sometimes forget how well we knew one another, Daphne. When I took you in all those years ago, as a child, to protect you, we became close, you and I.”

“So we did,” she replied. She met his eyes. “Harry was beginning to enjoy it here, even after his life was made a misery by  _certain_ _individuals_ tormenting him relentlessly and _nothing_ was done to stop it. And he has…a friend,” she said, gesturing at Hermione. “Though I suppose she might not be returning either.”

Albus's voice was laden with desperation. “Daphne, Harry must stay at Hogwarts. He has so much to learn, and he cannot do it elsewhere. It _must_ happen here!”

“ _Why?_ ” Daphne demanded. “It says nothing in your _Prophecy_ about _this_ castle. _Why_ is Hogwarts so important? Or is it _you_ that you mean by _Hogwarts?_  That Harry must stay with _you?_ Is that your ego talking, Albus? Can you not _bear_ the notion that Harry might defeat the greatest Dark wizard of our times _without_ your help?" 

Dumbledore considered her for a long moment, but fortunately, she felt no feather-touch of his Legilimency. That might have been enough to send her over the edge. Her palm itched. It wanted her wand. 

“To some extent, I cannot deny that it is the pride of an old man, who wishes to do something worthwhile in his life and seeks to atone for the many mistakes he has made, and _continues_ to make.”

“Good of you to admit it, at least.” 

“But I _do_ care for the boy, Daphne, believe me or no. And I do not think I could live in the knowledge that I could have done more for him. I will die as Headmaster, this much I know. This much has been revealed to me. I cannot leave. I _am_ Hogwarts, and she is _me_. And _she_ loves Harry as well. Even my dear Fawkes has developed quite a fondness for him. Awoken maternal instincts I did not even know it had, he has. He belongs _here_ , Daphne. There are dangers, yes. But there is also hope, and potential, and…”

“You,” she finished coolly. Daphne took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She had been convinced that she would reject any argument her old mentor would offer, and she would take Harry away, and together they would make their own destiny. But Hogwarts had been home to her since she was fourteen years old, broken and grieving. How could she deny the same to Harry?

 _Even if it kills him_? a cynical voice demanded.

 _It will_ not, she vowed.

“I will ask Harry,” she said at last. “He will make the final decision. However,” she added, raising a finger. “You will put a leash on your dog, Snape, or I will do what I should have done ages ago. He certainly deserves it.”

“He saved Harry’s life today,” Albus pointed out. “Quirrell and his Master were dying from the back-blast of the Stone, but it was Severus who finished him before he could do further harm. It took some amount of courage and decency to do that.”

“Decency to cast _Avada Kedavra_ ,” Daphne marvelled. “Now there is _irony_ for you.” 

She turned back to Harry. He had not stirred. They were not entirely alone, though. She felt the dark, oily presence of Severus Snape lurking, just out of sight. _Let him_ , she thought. _Let him fear the vengeance that he has coming from me, for what he did…_

The sight of Harry took her thoughts away from such darkness. He was so...innocent and whole - even if he really was not either, not anymore, and perhaps never. But she could pretend. And so could he.

She watched him sleep, and allowed only silent tears to slip down her face.

 

 

 

Harry awoke slowly, as if digging himself out from under the earth. He saw the light ahead, reached out, climbing higher and higher and higher and… 

“Hello, Harry,” Daphne said quietly.

“Daph…”

She shushed him, slipping his glasses over his nose. “It’s over, Harry. You did it. You made it, and you stopped him,” she said softly, tears streaking down her face. She ran a hand through his hair and bent down to kiss his forehead. Her eyes were filled with pride and relief.

“Hermione…?” Harry asked desperately. The last sight he remembered was of his best friend bleeding on the chamber floor. And then Snape…had _Snape_ been there too? And there had been a red light, and warmth and love. And then screams. It was all fuzzy in his mind, a jumbled mess of sights and sounds and smells and _pain_ …

Daphne gestured to his right, and Harry saw his best friend sleeping silently in her own bed. His face broke into a smile at the sight. “She’s fine, Harry. I’ve actually talked to her a few times already. This is the first time you’ve woken up.”

“How long has it been?” Harry asked. 

“Four days,” she answered. She gave a very forced smile. “I nearly had a heart attack when Dumbledore contacted me, and I demanded to come here immediately. He didn’t object, for once.”

Harry felt his exhaustion creeping up on him. “Daphne…”

She placed a finger to her lips. “Shhh. You’re tired, Harry. Get some rest; I’ll stay here as long as I have to.” 

Harry smiled weakly and closed his eyes, falling back into the darkness.

 

 

 

Harry opened bleary eyes and blinked. The world was fuzzy again. Groping around for his glasses, he found them on the bedside table and put them on. He tried to sit up but found he didn’t have the energy. He turned his eyes to Hermione’s bed, and saw her sitting up reading their Transfiguration textbook, an inkwell on the nightstand, a quill in her hand, and a piece of parchment laid over one side of the book. Her face, just poking out of a cloud of bushy hair, was set in concentration. Harry chuckled weakly.

“Do you _ever_ stop studying?”

Hermione jumped, “ _Harry!_ You’re awake!” she squealed.

“I made it,” he said weakly. Perhaps unnecessarily, but it felt good to say nonetheless. “Are you okay?”

“I’m well enough,” Hermione said impatiently. “What about you?”

“I’m _really_ tired. But feeling a whole lot better.” 

“That’s good,” she said. Her body tensed. “I really want to give you a big hug right now, but Madam Pomfrey says I mustn’t move too much while my wound heals.”

More memories came back, including the spray of blood from Hermione as Voldemort’s curse ripped her open. He shivered.

Concern lit her eyes.

“I’m okay, just…remembering.”

“Right," she said, uncertainly. "It sounded pretty bad.”

“It _was_ pretty bad. I’ve never hurt that much in my life, and you....”

“I heard…I heard that…he used…the, the _Cruciatus_ on you,” Hermione whispered. “More than one.”

“Yeah,” he said simply. 

Hermione took in a sharp intake of breath. “Oh Harry, I’m so _sorry_. I should have…I should have _done_ something, but I just went along with him, the whole way…and couldn’t…didn’t…”

“So did _I_ ,” he pointed out. “He _would_ have killed us, Hermione. And we stopped him. _That’s_ what matters.”

“ _You_ stopped him, you mean,” Hermione said, looking miserable. “I was no help at all. I was just a nuisance, a...a distraction…”

“ _Stop it_ ,” he told her firmly. “You figured out the logic puzzle, and you saved me from the Devil’s Snare. You helped burn a path to the trapdoor; there is no way I could have done that alone. And you were brave, _so_ brave in the chess game. You could have broken down and run, but you _didn’t_.”

He stared deep into her eyes,  _willing_ her to believe his words.

“You’re strong, Hermione. And I believe in you. And I need you.” 

Hermione was crying now. “Thank you. _Thank you_ , _Harry_ ,” she sobbed. Harry reached his hand towards her, and she reached for him, and with an effort their fingertips touched.

Their tender moment was interrupted by the doors to the Hospital Wing being flung open, and the sounds of an extremely heated argument.

“Severus, Daphne, _please_!”

“I will not _stand_ for this sort of _baseless_ attack upon my reputation, Headmaster!”

“What _reputation_ is that, Snape?”

“We will not disturb the children with your bickering,” the unmistakable voice of Albus Dumbledore said then, as two angry voices erupted in protest “…justified as it may be. Now, come with me and we can discuss this, or not…”

“Headmaster, I demand…”

The sounds of the argument grew fainter as the participants walked away. Harry tried to sit up, and managed to at least lean back against his pillows. The doors of the Hospital Wing opened again, admitting a subdued-looking Minerva McGonagall. Hermione sat up straighter. 

“Professor?” she asked. 

The elderly Head of Gryffindor house walked tentatively towards their beds. “Hello Miss Granger, Mister Potter. How are you two feeling?”

“Very tired,” Harry responded, “but alive.” He shivered slightly, and wondered again how that was. _Something with the Stone_ , he thought. It had saved him…somehow.

“Are you all right, Mister Potter?” McGonagall asked, genuinely concerned.

“Just…remembering,” he said quietly. With a grunt, Hermione made a motion to get out of bed, but found herself unable to escape the cocoon of blankets wrapped around her, and settled for giving him a sympathetic look.

“I understand, Mister Potter. You have been through a great deal, and it is to your credit that I am standing here speaking to you now.” She shuddered slightly. “My dears, I am here because I needs must apologize to both of you. I _should_ have taken your concerns seriously, even after Mister Potter suggested the involvement of a member of staff, which was, after everything, proven to be the case. I simply found the entire scenario so absurd at the time that…” Her voice was actually breaking as she struggled to maintain her composure. “That is, Mister Potter, Miss Granger, I failed…”

“It’s alright, Professor,” Hermione interrupted her. “Believe me; I’m not sure I would have behaved any differently.”

The old witch smiled slightly. “That is kind of you to say, my dear. Be that as it may, Miss Granger, the two of you were nearly killed because I was too complacent and stubborn. I believed that the defences surrounding the Stone were impenetrable. The very fact that a pair of first years, no matter how accomplished you two may be, were able to break through them, proves that my faith was misplaced.”

Harry and Hermione really didn’t have an answer for that. “Well, we forgive you, Professor,” Harry said lamely.

Professor McGonagall blinked. “Thank you, Mr. Potter. I must say I cannot understand what _possessed_ you two to take such risks. Be that as it may, you two have done a great service to the wizarding world and to this school. Professor Dumbledore has informed me that he would like to get a full account of what happened from you two. I believe he has spoken to you, Miss Granger?”

Hermione nodded. "Yesterday afternoon."

Professor McGonagall bobbed her head in acknowledgement. “So, once the Headmaster has…sorted out a few matters, he will be here to listen to you, Mist…Harry,” she corrected. “I suppose I might as well call you that, for now.”

Harry smiled. “Could Daphne be there?” 

“Certainly. I will arrange it," Professor McGonagall replied warmly. “Now, Madam Pomfrey would like to examine each of you, and given the circumstances, it would be appropriate to have a Head of House present to advocate. I will gladly serve this function for you, Miss Granger, but...Harry, I would think that, in the absence of your guardian...”

“Thank you. I give my permission.”

She smiled kindly. “I hoped you might. I assure you I will attempt to bring Daphne to your side as soon as possible, but she can be rather… _detained_ by Professor Snape.”

There was a swish of curtains, and the fierce Hogwarts Matron bustled towards them levitating a cart of potions and instruments. “Alright, you two. Time to see what’s still broken. You first, Miss Granger.”

As Hermione was force-fed two potions and subjected to a battery of tests, Harry suddenly remembered something no less pressing, though perhaps not life-threatening. “Professor?” he asked. 

“Yes, Harry?”

“Who...who won the Quidditch Cup?”

There could be no doubt that the joy he saw on her lined face was absolutely genuine, but she did her best to look sympathetic. “I’m sorry to report, Mister Potter, that Gryffindor routed Ravenclaw three-hundred and twenty to fifty, and thereby took the Cup over Slytherin on points. Mr. Weasley made an exceptional catch of the Snitch, worthy of his brother, some would say, though to be fair, he located the Snitch more by fortune than anything else. But half of any game is luck, is it not, Mr. Potter?”

“ _Weasley_?”

“ _Ronald_ Weasley,” she said, almost chuckling at Harry’s grimace. “It seems we may have found a new Seeker after all, and not a moment too soon. As you are well aware, first year players _are_ allowed on House teams in extraordinary circumstances, and Mr. McLaggen is still recovering from a rather nasty accident crashing into the left goal post during practice.”

Harry stared at her. The universe was laughing at him now.

It was _not_ funny.

_Won the war, but lost the battle, have we, Potter?_

 

 

Daphne sat on the chair at Harry’s bedside, holding her adopted son’s hand. She ran a hand through her hair and crossed her legs, before glancing at Harry. Hermione’s bed was now right beside his, so that they could offer some degree of reassurance to each other as they both continued to heal. 

Standing in front of both of them was Albus Dumbledore, his expression grave and his bright blue eyes filled with sadness. “Perhaps it would be best if you began from the beginning, Harry.”

And so Harry began his narrative of solving the mystery of the Philosopher’s Stone. They began with Harry’s visit to Gringotts, and Hagrid’s suspicious package. He detailed their discussions with Hagrid, and his revelation about Flamel. Harry discussed his research at Dressler Manor, his work with Hermione, Neville’s accidental brilliance, and the discovery that the object in question was the Philosopher’s Stone.

Next, he told Dumbledore of their realization that one of their Professors was after the Stone. He talked about the coincidences on Halloween of the troll and their discovery of Snape’s injury and suspicions of Quirrell. He avoided mentioning how he knew that Snape’s loyalties might have been suspect, though Professor McGonagall threw a meaningful look at Daphne. Snape had refused to be present in the same room as Daphne, though Harry suspected he was listening just out of sight. He could not believe his Head of House would allow a personal grudge to get in the way in these circumstances.

It was easy enough to explain his feelings of dread, and then Quirrell and Snape’s argument, and how the absence of Professor Dumbledore (who winced ever so slightly when it was mentioned) led them to conclude that the theft would be attempted that evening. Professor McGonagall looked devastated when he mentioned telling her of his concerns, and being rebuffed.

Then came the story of what happened that night. How they had gotten past the first group of defences, injured, but not too badly. How they had been captured by Quirrell, and used as tools to navigate the remainder of the traps. How Hermione had figured out Snape’s logic puzzle. And then…

He struggled to recount what happened before the Mirror of Erised. Daphne held his hand in a vice-grip as he alluded vaguely to the suffering he had undergone, the revelation that Voldemort was present as a kind of magical parasitic growth, how he had hurt Hermione, and then all he could remember (save a few intimate details of his vision of his parents and Daphne and the man who he had not recognized) of what happened after Quirrell cast the Killing Curse on him.

His voice was raw when he was finished, and he was surprised when he had to blink away tears.

But there was something he needed to know. 

“Sir, I have a question.”

“Yes, Harry?”

“Why does Voldemort want to kill me? Why did he go after me in the first place? What’s so special about me, about Harry Potter?”

The result of asking this question was remarkable. Daphne stiffened her face into a mask of barely-suppressed anguish, while Dumbledore sighed sadly. “Alas, Harry, the first question you ask me is the one I cannot answer.” He gave a meaningful look at Daphne, who nodded, and ran a hand through Harry’s hair.

“Daphne…?” Harry asked uncertainly.

“I’m sorry, Harry, but I can’t. You’ll find out when you are older. Forget about it for now; thanks to your efforts, it won’t be important for a while, right? He’s beaten. It will take a while before he is ready to threaten anyone again.”

“Alright,” he said quietly, entirely unsatisfied. He hated secrets being kept from him. 

The Headmaster spoke again. “Thank you for your candidness, Harry. Every detail helps me to piece together what exactly happened. I believe the Stone itself saved you, and even healed you to some degree. You might not have survived your ordeal without it. If I learn anything new of interest, you can be sure I will pass it along. However, I’m afraid you must excuse me now, as I have rather dire news to deliver to a very old friend. Fear not, though, he’s hinted for a while that he and Perenelle were ready to move on to the next adventure.”

 

 

Harry, Hermione, and Daphne had one more conversation with Dumbledore before the two were finally released from the Hogwarts Hospital Wing. Dumbledore told them about how Nicholas had taken the news of the destruction of the Stone quite well, much to the relief of both of them.  Dumbledore also explained, as best as he could, what had transpired before the Mirror of Erised. With some input from Daphne, he explained that Lily’s sacrifice ten years ago had given Harry protection against the Dark Lord within his very blood, providing him with a measure of permanent protection from the magic of Lord Voldemort, as well as explaining his survival as a baby. 

In the Forest, Dumbledore explained, Voldemort had been present in the form of his half-life, possessing the body of Quirrell, consuming unicorn blood to regain his strength. The malevolent intent of the man and what Dumbledore described as the ‘pure evil’ of Voldemort’s nature meant that his physical proximity had triggered Lily’s protection, and used Harry’s natural power to repulse the Dark Lord, though he had been magically exhausted by the process.

In the bowels of the castle five days ago, Quirrell's Killing Curse had struck the Philosopher’s Stone directly, and the immensely powerful magical object had magnified Lily Potter's Blood Magic to astounding levels. The object was itself a creation of Blood Magic, formed of a fusion of dragonsblood and pure æther, and it had strengthened Harry (and to some extent, it seemed, Hermione) while proving agonizing to Quirrell and Voldemort. The former’s body had already been dying when Snape had finished him. The Dark Lord was no doubt back in hiding, far too weak to be of any threat for quite some time. Dumbledore admitted uncertainty at what Voldemort had done that he could exist in such a state. 

The return to school life was something that neither first year much looked forward to. While the Gryffindors were likely to treat Hermione as a hero, since their story had inevitably spread across the school like a supercharged Burning Hex, Harry had no idea what his reception would be like back with the Slytherins. Daphne had offered to stay, but Harry had sent her home, saying he needed to get through this, at least, on his own.

They were finally released on the night of the Leaving Feast, though Harry suspected Hermione had asked Madam Pomfrey to stay longer than strictly necessary, so as to keep Harry company.

The noise of the feast drifted in through the open doors, and Harry swallowed hard. Hermione took his hand, and Hagrid, standing behind them, urged them forward.

The buzz of conversation and activity gradually faded as more and more of the students saw them. Hermione was still moving gingerly. Under her robes she had a large bandage across her abdominal wound. The nature of the magic that had inflicted it meant it would leave a rather wicked scar. It would be difficult to explain to her parents, and Hermione had asked for a Glamour Charm to be cast on it while it finished healing.

As they moved into the Hall, Terry Boot, Lisa Turpin, Mandy Brocklehurst, and a handful of other Ravenclaws rose to their feet and began applauding. Slowly, but steadily, more and more students rose to their feet. The Hufflepuffs, led by Cedric Diggory, were first to rise _en masse_ , but whether for Harry or for their own Hermione, the Gryffindors were making the most noise. Even the Weasleys applauded raucously, with either Fred or George leaping bodily onto the table as Percy screeched at him to get off.  Harry had to smile at that.

With some anxiety, he looked to the Slytherin table. Most of his housemates were applauding politely, if suspiciously. Draco Malfoy was just glaring at him, and attracting no small number of angry looks as a result.

At the Head Table, Dumbledore was beaming, but even at this distance Harry could make out the sadness behind his smile. Professor McGonagall was openly weeping, and Professor Sinistra was looking right at him, shaking her head and applauding hard. He nodded to her, and she acknowledged it. He still had an ally there. Even _Snape_ was standing and slowly clapping. A nod towards him (he had saved Harry’s life, after all) went either unseen or (more likely) ignored.

With one last firm squeeze of their hands, Harry and Hermione went their separate ways, and he smiled to see Hermione receive an enthusiastic and joyful welcome from the Gryffindors, including a hug from a flustered Neville Longbottom, which she returned just as fiercely. 

The Slytherins continued applauding as he approached, and Blaise Zabini shifted to allow him a space. “Not bad, Potter,” he muttered, and offered what might have been the vaguest hint of a smile. It was enough.

A hand clapped him on the back, and he turned to see Theodore Nott, who really did look like a darker, harder reflection of him in that moment, shaking his head.

“You know, I said it once, I’ll say it again. You really do know how to make an impression, Potter.”

“Thanks Nott…I guess.”

“Well, it seems you’ve accomplished quite a bit this year, Potter,” Daphne Greengrass said, not unkindly. 

“Thanks.”

“I hope you don’t manage to lose quite so many House points next year,” she said with a bit more of an edge. The Great Hall was decked out in the Blue and Bronze of Ravenclaw. _At least it wasn’t Gryffindor_ , he mused. 

“I don’t intend to,” he said weakly. The blonde girl gave him a strange smile, before turning to face the front of the Great Hall. The celebration had already begun at the Ravenclaw table, which had a sizable lead over the others in House points. Harry wasn’t sure if people were going to forget he and Draco losing 120 points, no matter what heroic deeds he had performed. _I guess I’ll have to work a little harder_ , he thought wryly.

Dumbledore stood up, and waved his hands. The Great Hall quieted, so quickly that Harry briefly wonder if there was some kind of magic involved. “Ah, another year is at an end. Where does time go?” he asked.

“Now, to business. I believe that the House Cup is yet to be officially awarded. As the points now stand, Hufflepuff is in fourth place with 352 points, Slytherin is in third place with 375 points, Gryffindor is in second place with 385 points, on the strength of the victory in the Quidditch Cup, and finally, Ravenclaw is in first place with 438 points.” Dumbledore’s last few words were lost in the explosion of cheering from the blue and bronze tables. Professor Flitwick appeared to be floating on air. 

“Yes, yes, well done Ravenclaw! However, due to recent events, there are some last minute points to be handed out.” The Great Hall quieted, and the Ravenclaws stared intently at their Headmaster, some with expressions of bewilderment, others betrayal. All with a general attitude of dread that their triumph was about to be snatched away. 

“First, to Miss Hermione Granger of Gryffindor. For cool logic in the face of fire, utterly superb spellwork, and courage worthy of the greatest of her House, I award Gryffindor 60 points!”

The Ravenclaws stared in disbelief, while the Gryffindor table exploded. Hermione was nearly trampled by the horde of jubilant students. Harry sat up expectantly. If he was right, they wouldn’t be celebrating for much longer. The Hall gradually quieted as Dumbledore remained standing.

“Yes, well done Miss Granger. But second, to Mr. Harry Potter. For extraordinary initiative, impressive cunning, exceptional bravery, unimaginable resolve, and simply outstanding loyalty to his friends and to this school, I award Slytherin House…70 points!” 

The reaction to this was rather interesting. Most of the students immediately added the point totals up in their heads, and realized, to varying levels of dismay, that Gryffindor and Slytherin were dead even.

“Finally, I have one more individual to recognize on this night.”

And then it was Harry who felt the encroaching feeling of dread. 

“There are all kinds of courage,” said Dumbledore, smiling. “It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but a special kind of courage to stand up to our friends. I therefore award five points…to Mr. Neville Longbottom, of Gryffindor. I believe that this calls for a change in decoration.” He clapped his hands, and the bronze eagle of Ravenclaw became the proud golden lion of Gryffindor, blue exchanged for red and bronze for gold. And then the Hall was a storm of noise and hoarse screaming, and poor Neville had vanished underneath a mob of his jubiliant housemates. Hufflepuff was applauding with nearly as much enthusiasm, and even Ravenclaw could celebrate the downfall of long-time champion Slytherin House. The expressions of those around Harry ranged from anger, to resignation, to disbelief. For once, none of this was directed at him. It seemed that his earlier transgressions were forgiven, or at least forgotten. He was fairly certain that when the whole year was put together, he came out ahead, if just barely. He was definitely one of the more frequently rewarded Slytherin first years in classes other than Potions.

A part of him was happy for Neville, certainly. The poor boy deserved a break after a difficult year, and based on what Hermione had said, he had indeed tried to stop her leaving that night. Hermione could without much of a stretch be called Neville’s friend; he was one of the only Gryffindors who was ever kind to her without prompting.

It was fairly earned, even if he could be rather suspicious of Dumbledore’s motivations in tying the two Houses and then untying them to make Neville the hero of the day.

Well, no one ever said that _he_ wasn’t biased towards his old House. 

 

 

 

The next morning, as if by telepathy, Hermione wandered out of the castle and found Harry coming back from the lake. He smiled brightly when he saw her. “I thought I might find you out here,” she said. “You weren’t at breakfast. I was a bit worried.” 

“My housemates have been perfectly civil,” Harry told her. “Malfoy has probably gotten more nasty looks. He _did_ lose fifty points of his own, after all.”

Hermione grinned. “He did, didn’t he? Things were fine…well, more than fine, in Gryffindor Tower, as you can imagine. Neville got most of the attention, and I don’t think he knew what to do, poor thing. But, well, I don’t think I’ve ever felt more welcome there before.” She smiled. “It’s nice. I could get used to it.” 

She offered, and Harry accepted, wrapping his arms around her and burying his head in her bushy hair. They swayed on the spot, wordlessly, yet communicating everything they needed to all the same. Hermione did not let him go as she whispered. “I’m sorry, Harry. Genuinely.”

“It’s alright, it really is. I’m not being blamed particularly, and Neville earned it.” 

“I guess he did at that,” she admitted. “It’s going to be alright, you know. We made it through this; we can make it through anything. Together.”

“Together,” he agreed.

This wasn’t an end. This was a beginning.

They had walked into the fire, and they had come out the other side. Come what may, they would always have each other.

And _that_ was a very happy thought indeed.

 

**_Finis_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that is the end of Grey Maiden Book I! I realize that in the end the outcome differed very little from the canon, which might seem a bit disappointing, I can assure you that the next two books diverge pretty wildly from canon (the fourth is centered around the Triwizard Cup, as in GoF). The point of this story is to begin to introduce unfamiliar elements of my AU in a familar setting, and I hope that it worked. In this last chapter especially, you got some major hints as to Daphne's own past.
> 
> Please leave your comments below! While this is for now primarily a revision of existing work, I'm making tweaks and changes quite often. If there is more of a certain character or any other event or activity or setting, please let me know. I can't promise to incorporate all your suggestions, but you could very well push me one way or another. 
> 
> I'm going to start revising Slytherin's Heir in the next couple of weeks, and hope to begin posting chapters by the end of the year at the latest.

**Author's Note:**

> I first started writing this story around 2006 when I was in high school, and got up to about Book Five in my AU before I lost steam. With the benefit of many years since, I'm hoping to at least revise what I have written, if not complete the series itself. If any of you happen to remember it from fanfiction.net you may find it a bit different than you remembered. I'm going to try to post chapters every few days until the end of Book I, then go away to revise Book II and hopefully resume the same schedule, my studies permitting.
> 
> I do mean it though: kids are terrible and so is Severus Snape. Nonetheless, while to some extent my own miserable high school life indelibly colored my portrayal of Harry's time at school, I've attempted to make things a bit more reasonable, even if I don't shy away from the consequences of eleven-year olds going up against actual monsters.
> 
> One more note: this story (and my world-building) were begun prior to the release of Deathly Hallows, and so very little that was revealed there will become part of this story. I've also addressed some of my dissatisfaction with HBP. I'm not even bothering with Pottermore.
> 
> Finally, this may seem to be setting up a Harry/Hermione pairing. It is not. I have my own plans for both of them.


End file.
